


Hold That Thought

by JennaEf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Platonic Soulmates, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 97,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaEf/pseuds/JennaEf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his clinical death, Sherlock acuires an extraordinary gift... But for better or for worse? AU, platonic soulmates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curious One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: character death (sort of), disturbing images.  
> John's and Sherlock's dreams and thoughts are in italics.

Being strangled to death in your own bed was an extremely unpleasant experience, Sherlock decided. Especially because it was the first night of decent sleep he had gotten after an exceptionally complex and difficult case. He clawed furiously at the rope, which was slowly suffocating him, in order to loosen it a bit. But that proved to be totally futile, because the rope was too thin for Sherlock to get his fingers under.

Usually, Sherlock's sleep was very fitful, and catching the detective off guard was nearly impossible. Not this time, though. When he finally got home in the evening, John, glancing briefly in his direction, immediately shifted into his "doctor mode" and declared that Sherlock needed a decent meal and a full-night's sleep. After that John proceeded to practically spoon-feed him, managing to talk him in the process into taking some sleeping pills ('Just so I'm sure that you'll sleep well', John said). Sherlock hated pills, but, seeing John's genuinely worried face, couldn't find the power to decline. The stuff proved to be exceptionally strong, and Sherlock praised himself on being wise enough not to take it during his dinner, otherwise he would've fallen asleep right there at the table, and his flatmate would have been faced with the laborious task of dragging his completely unresponsive and uncooperative body towards the coach. But on the other hand, considering this night's turn of events, maybe that would have been better.

Sherlock was dizzy from the lack of oxygen, his lungs burned with the necessity to draw breath and his vision was greying, but he still continued struggling. He had no illusions about his fate, but he definitely wasn't going down without a fight. In fact, he was almost amazed by the fact that he was still conscious and able to think. If anything, his thought processes seemed to be only increasing. But maybe he was so used to depriving himself of the most essential things like sleep and food, that the oxygen deprivation was just another step up the ladder?

He tried flailing his limbs wildly in order to throw something on the floor and make a noise. He realised that it probably wouldn't do for him much good, because John was away on a night shift, and it was highly doubtful that Mrs Hudson would hear him from downstairs, but still he had to try. His assassin grunted painfully when Sherlock managed to kick him, and proceeded to flip the detective onto his stomach, pressing Sherlock's face into the pillow and effectively cutting off the meagre amount of precious air the younger man was left with. After that the rope around his neck tightened even more, his body started to shudder violently, he felt a painful sensation inside his head, as if his brain suddenly swelled and now threatened to explode, then a bright white flash blinded him – that must've been his neurons dying – and finally darkness claimed him. His last fleeting thought was that maybe he shouldn't have disabled Mycroft's surveillance devices yesterday…

_Awareness returned to him gradually, and that in itself was strange. Sherlock had always favoured logic and cold facts, and therefore for him assuming that there was something after death would be a complete nonsense. His body had died, physically, he felt it. The brain couldn't possibly continue to function without the body, and, more importantly, the brain couldn't function without oxygen. Those were the facts. But despite them, Sherlock's consciousness continued to exist. More than that, without being burdened by his own body, Sherlock became aware of himself as the almost crystallised rationality._

_The vast amount of space, in which he found himself, was very disorienting, and he desperately wished for something even remotely familiar. As if having heard him, the space began shifting, transforming, and finally morphed into the living room on Baker Street 221b. Sherlock's spirit immediately gravitated towards the apparition of his favourite armchair and managed to somehow settle there._

_A wave of tranquillity washed over him, leaving him strangely content and peaceful. Right after that, a voice followed – deep, rich and mesmerising._

_"Greetings, Curious One. We've been waiting for you."_

_"Well, you've chosen a strange way of arranging our meeting," the still remaining rational part of Sherlock commented sarcastically. "Personally, I prefer the less painful invitation."_

_"It wasn't our doing," there was sadness in the voice now. "Your path had been wronged. It was decided to allow the continuation of your journey."_

_"You know, as much as I love charades and riddles, that one is way over the top," the detective's spirit grumbled. "And, by the way, I usually prefer seeing the person with whom I'm talking."_

_The space above the opposite armchair seemed to thicken, and then gradually coalesced into something resembling the human figure._

_"Close enough," Sherlock agreed. "Now, you were saying..."_

_The voice changed also, becoming more real and straightforward._

_"Your life was ended prematurely, and therefore you have one more chance. Use it wisely."_

_"You mean you're going to bring me back. But that's impossible, I was dead way too long, the brain functions..."_

_"You're aware of the concept of a clinical death?" the voice interrupted._

_"Of course, that's close to my area of expertise."_

_"Time is relative."_

_"Dull. Why did I even bother to talk to you? For all I know you could be the figment of my dying mind's imagination!"_

_There was a sliver of light, and something SLAMMED into the detective, practically paralysing him._

_"Still... doesn't prove... anything... Could be... the terminal seizure..."_

_The space shifted again, and now they were in Sherlock's bedroom. He saw John, huddled in the corner of the room, and himself laying on the bed. The view wasn't pretty. John seemed to be crying, but there was no sound, only a picture._

_"Okay, stop it," Sherlock was torn between sorrow and suspicion. The vision stayed on. "I said, stop it! Enough!"_

_The image of John wavered and started to disappear, leaving Sherlock with the nauseating picture of his own corpse. Furious, his spirit whirled around and launched itself at his torturer. Another sliver of light – and he found himself falling. It felt as if something was tearing him apart, shred by shred._

_"Alright, alright, I give up!" he screamed. "Just stop this, please! Please!"_

_Everything stilled abruptly, and then shifted again, and now he was on the street near his front door._

_"You will continue your journey, but for that, a price should be paid. You will never be the same. You will bear the burden of a gift, Curious One. But fear not, you wouldn't bear it alone. You should find The Quiet One, he will become your guide and your guardian. Now go. And hurry, the time's running short."_

_"Go where?" the detective asked perplexedly. "How do I get back?"_

_The voice was silent._

_"Well, thanks a lot," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "Riddles and charades all over again."_

_There was something akin a soft breeze near his ear, transforming into "Heeereee" and the image of his home wavered slightly. The detective collected himself and stepped through the apparition of his own front door..._

* * *

John glanced nervously at his watch, mentally urging the car to go faster. He was consulting a patient, when the sharp pain in his head almost blinded him. Collapsing onto his knees, the blond-haired doctor found himself gasping for breath frantically. Something was terribly, awfully wrong with his chest, and John started clawing at the collar of his shirt, trying to tear it away. His patient, the young woman, with whom John was talking mere moments ago, backed away from him in fear and yelled for the nurse. A second later the door swung open, and John struggled to pull himself upright, using the table for leverage. There was a red mist obscuring his vision, and he managed weakly:

"Please... I need to go home... something... I can't... Help me, please..."

He had no recollection of getting into a cab, so somebody must've helped him. During the ride his head seemed to clear a bit, but the nagging, uncomfortable feeling remained. John drummed his fingers on the seat impatiently, and when the taxi stopped, he was out in a flash. He paid the cabbie and unlocked the front door hurriedly.

There was an eerie silence inside their flat, and a chill went down his spine. The place was quiet, too quiet for his liking, and John went carefully around the flat, room by room, his senses on a high alert. When John finally got into Sherlock's bedroom, his world shattered.

He didn't want to remember turning his friend over, trying not to look at that horrible mask into which Sherlock's face was transformed, swallowing convulsively against the bile in his throat, and barely managing to get the rope off Sherlock's neck – his hands were shaking so badly...

He vaguely recalls dialling 999 and struggling to explain his emergency to the operator, although he begins to realise that all his efforts are already meaningless...

He doesn't remember how many times he tried to shock Sherlock back to life with the portable defibrillator, stubbornly refusing to believe that his friend was gone for good…

Finally he gave up. He collapsed on the floor helplessly, huddled himself against the wall and wept...

When his tears subsided, he was finally able to think rationally. There was only one thing to do. He slowly pulled out his phone and dialled Mycroft's number.

The elder Holmes picked up after the first ring.

"Mycroft..." John's voice sounded hollow.

"I already know, John," there was sadness in the politician's voice, sadness and compassion.

"You do? But how..."

"It took quite an effort to re-establish the surveillance system, and when it finally came online, it was already too late. But I have information on Sherlock's assassin, and tracking him down is just a matter of time. Unfortunately, it doesn't change the fact..."

Mycroft faltered, and John's mind obediently filled in the gap. He briefly wondered if it was the reason the older Holmes hesitated to make an appearance.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"It's the least I can do, John."

There was a long pause.

"Mycroft..."

"Yes, John?"

"I can't... deal with it... alone..."

"I'll be over shortly. Just stay calm, John. We'll get everything sorted."

"Okay. I'll be waiting," and John clicked the connection off.

But when Mycroft Holmes crossed the threshold of his brother's bedroom and the two men stepped towards the bed, there was a strange gurgling sound in Sherlock's chest, then his body started to seize: one, two, three times, and the dark-haired man drew a shuddering breath.

And, from that moment, bit by bit, John's world started to rebuild itself anew.


	2. Stuck

In the deafening silence of the room Mycroft's umbrella hit the floor with the resounding thud. The elder Holmes started backing away, shaking his head in disbelief. John, on the contrary, surged forward and dropped onto his knees near his friend's bed, reaching tentatively towards the motionless body.

"It's impossible," murmured Mycroft dazedly. "It can't be happening. He died, he simply can't…"

"Mycroft," John said calmly. "Shut the hell up and sit down. Now!"

The doctor's voice was full of authority and booked no argument, and the politician obeyed instantly, too shaken to protest. But John didn't fail to notice that the chair Mycroft chose to sit in was in the corner of the room and therefore he managed to distance himself from his unexpectedly alive sibling.

With Mycroft out of the way and not distracting him, the ex-army doctor finally could turn his full attention to the man on the bed in front of him. Sherlock's chest rose and fell regularly, the colour of his face slowly started returning to normal, but other than that, there were no other visible changes. Luckily, John had a penlight in a breast pocket of his jacket, so he proceeded to check Sherlock's iris contraction reflexes next. Everything was as it should be, and John hummed quietly in satisfaction. Rising from the floor, he turned and looked at the elder Holmes, smiling slightly. Mycroft sat stiffly in the chair, staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

"Mycroft, we need to get him to the hospital, the sooner the better," John said firmly, and the politician turned his head to look at him, blinking slowly.

"Is Sherlock..," the elder man replied uncertainly.

"Yes, alive and breathing. But to keep doing that, he needs a proper medical attention"

"Of course," Mycroft rose gracefully from the chair. "The paramedics are waiting downstairs, by the way."

"Good. Then I will tell them that the reason of their arrival is changed. Can you keep an eye on Sherlock for the couple of minutes?"

"Yes, I suppose."

From the slightly strained expression on the older man's face John concluded that Mycroft wasn't at all happy with the prospect...

* * *

"I'm thirsty, going to get something to drink," John announced, getting up from the quite comfortable chair. They were in the small room of the private clinic, waiting for the news about Sherlock's condition. "Do you want anything, while I'm at it?"

"Coffee," the politician was tapping his fingers on his umbrella's handle. His expression was distant, so clearly he was contemplating something.

"How do you take it?" the doctor enquired.

"What? Oh, black, two sugars, please."

"Anything else?"

"Biscuits would be nice."

"Okay, I'll see what I can find around here," John went to the coffee machine, which he spotted in the corner of the room, and soon returned with the two cups and the pack of biscuits. "Here you are."

"I need you to explain something to me, John," Mycroft took a tentative sip from his cup. "Ah, a good coffee, by the way."

"Explain what, Mycroft?" the doctor also took a sip and nodded. "You're right about the coffee."

"I still can't quite comprehend, how…"

"How it is possible?"

"Precisely. And why they put him in the cold bath when we were at the flat."

"Well, that's not exactly my area of expertise, but I've read some research on that matter. It called the Lazarus Syndrome'. Basically it means spontaneous revival after death. Happens rarely, and nobody knows why. I guess we just got very lucky. Maybe my attempts to bring Sherlock back made a difference, I'm not sure."

"And the bath?"

"Well, we don't know for certain how long he'd been dead. So there could be substantial brain damage. Lowering the body temperature is the way to prevent that. Let's hope that it will work. But still, he never will be the same again, Mycroft."

"I understand that. What's the worst case scenario?"

"Well, he isn't brain-dead, that's for sure. The rest is just the question of time and efforts, which we'll need to get him back to normal."

"I hope you're right, John."

"Whatever it takes, Mycroft, I'll do it."

"I know, John. And I want you to know that you're not alone in this. Whatever it takes."

They both fell silent, sipping their coffee slowly, waiting for the news and desperately wishing for the better…

* * *

 _Darkness. Darkness and emptiness – Sherlock didn't like it at all. He was supposed to be alive now, not stuck in some Limbo._

 _"You are alive, you're just inside your own mind," somebody said clearly._

 _"Yeah? Well, no offence, but it's too empty to be my mind, I think. And who are you, by the way?"_

 _"It doesn't matter. We're here to help you harness your gift."_

 _"Harness? Wait a minute, just what kind of gift are we talking about? What are you going to turn me into?"_

 _"We are not going to turn you into anything, just merely enhance your natural abilities. And train you to use them to full extent."_

 _"Oh, okay. And you are going to start training me right now, I suppose?"_

 _"Quite correct. And since you are not satisfied with your surroundings, try to do something about it."_

 _"Like waking up?"_

 _"Nice try. But we were talking about transforming your CURRENT surroundings."_

 _"Well, let me think..," the darkness fled away, replaced by the quite detailed image of Sherlock's own bedroom. "Home, sweet home."_

 _"Impressive."_

 _"Can I change your voice too?"_

 _"Like that?" somebody said clearly in John's voice._

 _"Yes," Sherlock answered, realising with sudden clarity that he was missing John terribly. "How did you… Am I that predictable?"_

 _"You are honest. And caring."_

 _"Well, just don't go all mushy on me right now, okay? Especially with John's voice."_

 _"You are projecting your own emotions, Curious One. We have none at all."_

 _"We?"_

 _"In your terms, we are something like a collective consciousness. The sum of everything that was, is, and will be."_

 _For Sherlock's rational mind such an explanation just wasn't good enough. But without substantial data to base his theory upon, he chose not to do that at all, filing the current information as irrelevant and insignificant._

 _Still needing to find a way out of that situation, he simply pretended to play along._

 _"Impressive. And for how long I'm stuck here with you? No offence, of course."_

 _"None taken. As long as it takes for your body to heal."_

 _"And that will be… Wait, don't answer. Time is relative, am I right?"_

 _"Enough for us to teach you everything that you should know."_

 _"Yes, you're right. Absolutely pointless. Well, let's stop wasting our time and start learning, shall we?"_

* * *

The door finally opened and Sherlock's weary looking physician stepped into the room. John was up and feeling apprehensive in a second.

"It's not as bad as it seems," the sandy-haired man hastened to reassure. "I'm Doctor Stanley Barlow. And you are…"

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. And this is Doctor John Watson, his closest friend and colleague."

"Doctor? May I ask about your specialty?"

"Field surgeon. Ex-army, invalided from Afghanistan."

"Good, that's good. You're perfectly qualified to look after your friend then. He is comatose now, but the brain activity is spiking periodically. We did a complex of tests, and the results are looking very promising so far."

"Is there any brain damage?"

"That remains to be seen when he wakes up."

"So what's the course of his treatment for now?"

"Anaesthetics and a mild hypothermia for the next few hours, and if the brain activity holds, we'll switch him over to basic life support. He is breathing on his own, so it's just a precaution."

"Can we see him?"

"Yes, but not for long. When we transfer him into Recovery, the visiting hours will be extended. And as for now – follow me, please."

Five minutes later they were standing near Sherlock's bed, gazing at him with hope and worry. The consulting detective looked paler than usual; his body was covered with the hypothermal blanket, multiple tubes and wires sneaking out and connecting Sherlock to the life supporting machines. He was so fragile, so vulnerable, that John's heart skipped a beat.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. We're here, you're safe. We'll do anything to get you back to normal. Everything is going to be okay."

Mycroft glanced at him with approval, and John smiled bravely in return. But deep inside, he felt that everything wouldn't be as easy as it seemed…


	3. Discoveries

John's life settled into pretty much an ordinary and almost uneventful routine. He worked shifts in the clinic, and most of his days off he spent in Sherlock's VIP room. His friend was still in a coma, but his vitals were stable – no seizures, no cardiac arrests, and the brain activity seemed to be increasing a little each day that passed. That was quite reassuring, and John found himself starting to really believe that this time everything is going to turn out good for both of them.

Only a few trusted people knew the truth about the assault, Mycroft made sure of that. And one of them was Detective Inspector Lestrade. So John wasn't at all surprised when one fine evening he received a call from the Detective Inspector. Basically Lestrade just wanted to know about Sherlock's condition, and John decided to invite him over for dinner. Lestrade gladly accepted the invitation and even offered to bring food.

"Make that a pack of beer, and consider everything settled," John concluded. "I'll be home at seven, and I'm cooking tonight, so…"

"Eight, then. And thank you for the offer, doctor."

Lestrade hang up, and John immediately started planning the menu for dinner. Nothing fancy, just ordinary homemade food, capable to sustain two hard-working men. And preferably something that he could easily throw together before Lestrade's arrival. At least, the freezer was fully stocked up, so shouldn't be a real problem, anyway…

The preparation took less time that John anticipated, and when the Detective Inspector finally showed up, he was met by delicious smells, which were wafting gently through the flat.

"Good evening," Lestrade gave the promised six-pack to John and shrugged off his raincoat. "Smells good, Doctor."

"Just John," the blond-haired doctor led his guest upstairs. "Well, that was the general idea."

"Then you can call me Greg."

"Is that what 'G' stands for? Gregory Lestrade?"

"Precisely," they stepped into the kitchen, and Greg raised his eyebrows at the perfectly served table. "Impressive."

"Well, for a change, it's great to have dinner in good company and without the necessity to finish it as fast as you can," John grinned.

"Oh, I understand perfectly what you mean!" Lestrade grinned in return.

"So? I'd suggest, dinner first and then talk, if that's fine with you."

"Only a fool argues with the doctor. No objection from me…"

They ate in silence, except the moments when Greg chose to praise John's cooking. John tried to object, saying that it was nothing special, but Lestrade cut him short. "You do know that I live alone now, don't you? So, let me be the judge of that."

Flattered, John wisely decided to shut up promptly.

When the dinner was finished, they went to the living room to chat.

"So, how's Sherlock doing?" asked Greg when they settled in the chairs and popped open the beer.

"Not bad, actually. Still in a coma, but the test results are very promising."

"So he could wake up soon?"

"Could be any moment. And how are things at Scotland Yard?"

"Quiet. And – never thought I would say this – boring. We all miss him, you know."

"Yeah," John smiled. "Just wait until he gets back. Then you'll regret it, I think."

"Maybe. But at least I'll have something to look forward to," Lestrade fell silent. "John, I wanted to ask… When you found him…"

A pained expression flicked across John's face, but he quickly took hold of himself. "Awful. I don't remember much, I must've blocked that memory. But definitely a situation I never want to find myself in again. Why do you ask?"

"Well..," Greg paused, clearly debating something in his mind. "Sherlock contacted me not long before he… before the attack. He was working undercover…"

"I know that. He told me."

"Yes, but that's not all. He left me a Memory stick. Said that the information on it is very important, and asked to give it to you if something… Anyway, I think you should see that," Lestrade fished the stick out of his pocket and gave it to John. "Oh, and he asked me to tell you to remember your first meeting at Bart's. And something about the fingerprint recognition. Don't ask me why, I'm just relaying his message."

"Thank you," John pocketed the stick. "Did you see what's on it?"

"No, I'm just the messenger. Of course if you could share any important information…"

"Okay, I'll see what I can do, Greg."

They talked some more, finishing the entire six-pack, and then Lestrade glanced at his watch.

"I think it's time to call it a night," Greg announced, getting up from the chair. "You're working tomorrow?"

"No, day off. I'm going to spend some time with Sherlock."

"Just waiting for him to wake up?"

"Well, that too, but I prefer to talk to him in the process. Just keeping him up to date with everything, you know."

"Yeah, I know. And I really hope to see both of you soon."

"Sure, Greg. I'm counting on it, because you know what it's like when he is bored."

The police inspector smiled and went towards the living room door. John made a little detour into the kitchen and then accompanied his guest downstairs, a paper bag in his hands. Greg pulled his coat on and gestured at the bag. "What's this?"

"Oh, just some leftovers. A home food for you. I hope you'll like it," John trust the bag into Lestrade's hands.

Greg was speechless for the moment, then glanced at John gratefully. "You shouldn't have… Thank you, John."

"Feel free to drop by any time, Greg. And don't worry, I'll deal with Sherlock on that account."

"Okay," Greg smiled. "Thank you for the evening, John."

"And thank you for the company, Greg. See you soon. Good night!"

"Good night!"

John closed the front door and fingered the Memory stick in his pocket. It was already late, and the information on the device probably was quite extensive, so John decided to postpone opening it till morning. He returned upstairs, cleaned the table, washed the dishes and then went into his bedroom. He was very tired: the shift at clinic had been rough, and Greg – even though John was happy to see him – had added to the sum. So John wasn't at all surprised when sleep claimed him almost instantly…

* * *

When John woke up in the morning, his thoughts immediately flashed back to the Memory stick. So, the blond-haired man quickly got up, prepared a simple breakfast and, successfully finishing all his tasks, finally settled in the armchair with his laptop. Taking a deep breath, he plugged the stick in.

There were a few seconds, when the small device was initializing, and then a message appeared: "Please press your index finger on the highlighted area of the Memory stick". At the same time, a square lit up on the device, and John did exactly as he was instructed. The message instantly was replaced with: "Access granted", and a video came on-screen. Seeing his friend smiling at him from the recording made John's heart clench painfully, so he paused the playback and tried to get himself under control. Finally succeeding, he hit the "Play" button…

"Hello, John," there was that blinding smile again. "Well, if you're watching this, I can safely assume that Mycroft's plan backfired. Not that I'm surprised, really… At least I hope that I've survived somehow…"

"Yeah, barely," John commented dryly.

"Anyway, about the files on this stick. They are the materials of my current case. Don't ask what it is about – I'm endangering you enough by asking Lestrade to give you this Memory stick. Just make sure that my brother gets it as soon as possible. Oh, and we shouldn't miss the opportunity to make him sweat a little, should we? The files are password protected. Two words. Just remember the moment when we first met. I dashed away to the mortuary to get something. What exactly?

Okay, that's all. Hope to see you soon, John," Sherlock's eyes darted away suddenly. "Someone is coming, can't talk anymore. Bye, John!"

The video ended, and John was left staring at the screen with the vast amount of files on it.

"Okay, now I really DON'T want to know," the ex-army doctor decided. "Let's hope that Mycroft can sort it all out."

At that moment, another message appeared on screen: "Don't worry about Mycroft seeing that video, it was designed to appear just once and will be erased afterwards."

"Well, that's too bad, because I really miss hearing you, Sherlock," John confessed, pulling his phone out and dialling Mycroft's number.

"Yes, John?" the politician's voice was calm and steady.

'I wonder if he heard everything through his surveillance feed,' John thought briefly. "We need to talk. And I have something for you," he said curtly.

"Wise decision, John. I'm on my way, and after our talk I can give you a lift to the clinic. You were planning to spend this day with Sherlock, weren't you?"

"You know my schedule perfectly well, Mycroft, so what's the point in asking?"

"Is there a reason for you to be so snappy this morning, John?"

"Come here and find out for yourself, Mycroft," and John hang up. Yes, he had a damn good reason to be 'snappy', because if Mycroft was responsible for the fact that Sherlock was on that bed now, John was surely going to throttle the elder Holmes. Or inflict real physical damage anyway.

When Mycroft's black sedan pulled to a stop near the front door of Baker Street 221B, John was already standing on the steps, waiting. The door of the car opened immediately, and John, crossing the distance, slid into the seat beside Mycroft. The car started moving, and Mycroft glanced at John enquiringly.

"I have something for you," John pulled the Memory stick from his pocket. "But before I give it to you, I need to ask you one question. And I need an honest answer, Mycroft."

"Ask."

"Did you let your brother down? Was he nearly killed because you failed to protect him? Was that it, Mycroft?"

The politician looked lost in thoughts for a moment, and then started to answer, weighting his words carefully. "As much as it pains me to admit it, John, the answer is 'yes'. But on the other hand, if Sherlock wouldn't have disabled the surveillance system, everything…"

"Fair enough," John interrupted, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Sibling rivalry got in the way again. Luckily, we got him back this time. But I hate to imagine…"

"It will NOT happen, John," Mycroft answered rather forcefully. "I will not let that happen again. You have my word."

Nodding, John gave the Memory stick to the elder Holmes.

The car stopped, and John got out. "I'm counting on you, Mycroft," he answered, closing the door. But a second later the doctor re-opened it. "Oh, I almost forgot: the files are password-protected. Think about one of Sherlock's favourite possessions. Two words. And good luck with it…"

* * *

 _Sherlock spent all his time learning: step by step, bit by bit. Well, truth be told, he actually had nothing else to do, so learning it was. He was almost obsessed with it, and demanded more and more, so sometimes his 'teachers' were forced to literally knock him out to let his brain rest. Not for long, since he already gave them grief for wasting his valuable time, but just enough for 'recharging the battery', as he called it._

 _Anyway, back to learning. Simple things, really: mostly the ability to associate words with colors, when someone is speaking, and detect the frequency of everything. It never really occurred to him that the outside world was vibrating constantly. Now he was feeling it: sometimes pleasant, sometimes VERY irritating. He complained about it, and they immediately taught him how to block the signals._

 _He had only a few subjects for perfecting his abilities: nurses, his physician, Mycroft and John, but that proved to be enough. Especially when it came to John. Never in his life could Sherlock have imagined that his friend had such depths hidden inside. When he managed to tune on to John's words, Sherlock was almost blinded by the vast amount of colours. Fine-tuning it to bearable, Sherlock focused all his attention on John and watched, mesmerized, as the colours swirled and changed constantly…_

 _He knew the colours and the frequency of each human emotion now, and he could easily detect a truth and a lie. That was all he needed to know at the moment; as they told him, the rest will come later._

 _"It's time for you to face the world, Curious One," the voice said finally. "From now on, you should search for the Quiet One. But have no fear – we will not abandon you on your journey. Whenever you'll need us, just clear your mind and call out."_

 _"Well, thanks a lot. Till next time, then."_

 _"Till next time."_

Was that his imagination, or did he really hear a smirk in his mentor's voice?

He didn't have time to muse on that question, because right at that moment he finally regained his consciousness. The onslaught of sounds and colours on his senses was unbearable, and he honest to God SCREAMED, trying frantically to mute it all in one go. But maybe he'd overdone it a little, because the next thing he registered was the medical equipment around him short-circuiting with the fireworks of sparks.

When everything finally died down, Sherlock risked opening his eyes and immediately saw John getting out from behind the foot of his bed carefully.

"Hello, Sherlock," his friend said slowly. "A bloody impressive entrance, if you want my opinion."

The colours swirled and changed in his mind's eye, and Sherlock smiled happily. For now, he had John. The Quiet One would have to wait…


	4. Searching for Balance

The door to the room started to open, and in a split second Sherlock locked his eyes with John, shook his head slightly and immediately feigned unconsciousness.

The nurse came into the room, and her eyes widened at the sight of the broken equipment. "Excuse me, sir, but what had happened here?" she asked in bewilderment, turning to John.

"Beats me," the ex-army doctor shrugged his shoulders. "I was reading a book when all this pandemonium started suddenly. So – absolutely no idea."

The nurse went to check the patient's vitals, and Sherlock almost fought to stay still, because the moment she touched him, his body unexpectedly started to itch all over. Luckily, it didn't last long, because she pulled away soon, clearly satisfied with his condition.

"I will send the technician in to fix the machinery in the next half hour," she announced, leaving the room.

Sherlock totally relaxed and opened his eyes. John was coming towards him, an expression of immense relief evident on the doctor's face. Sherlock just looked at his friend silently, feeling John's emotions wash over him like a tidal wave, soothing, caressing, protecting. But that just wasn't enough. He wanted colours. Craved them, in fact. So he tried to get them immediately.

"John..," he croaked hoarsely, throat constricting painfully.

"Shh," John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but the detective unexpectedly moaned and tried to jerk away from him. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

Hurt. John's touch hurt him. Burned, in fact. Sherlock was confused and disappointed. The colours and vibrations coming from John – they were so… beautiful… How come that the physical contact brought only pain? And what was he supposed to do about it? He couldn't lose John. Not now, not ever. "Water," he said weakly, deciding just to take it one step at a time.

John, stunned by his friend's reaction, immediately busied himself with the task of filling the glass with water and bringing it to Sherlock. But he paused near the bed, unsure what to do next and afraid to cause Sherlock further discomfort. Finally he found a solution, placing a straw into the glass and bringing it to Sherlock's lips. The detective gratefully accepted his friend's help, all the while automatically detecting even the smallest changes in John's emotions, which were coming to him in a steady stream. John clearly was uncomfortable with the current situation, and his discomfort felt like the sensation of pins and needles for Sherlock – unpleasant, but still bearable.

When Sherlock drained the glass, John immediately backed away, obviously determined to give his friend some space. And that was fine with Sherlock, actually, because he definitely needed to consult his 'teachers'. Luckily, John seemed to come to a similar conclusion, although for another reason.

"You are still weak, Sherlock," he said softly. "You need to rest and gather your strength."

Sherlock found himself nodding mutely, and watching the swirls of green and yellow curling around John's body. Stunningly beautiful. "Don't leave," he whispered.

"Wasn't going to," John replied immediately, showing him a book. "I'll just read over there, if you don't mind."

"No. Thanks."

"Nothing to thank me for," John waved his hand dismissively and went to the chair. "Now just close your eyes and go to sleep, Sherlock."

And the detective did just that, sleep claiming him almost immediately…

* * *

 _This time, Sherlock found himself sitting on the blanket, which was spread over a patch of grass. It was a warm, sunny day; the light breeze caressed his skin, and he could smell the delicate aroma of flowers wafting in the air._

 _"Nice scenery," he commented softly. "Are you trying to distract me? Because I have questions, you know."_

 _There was no answer at first, but soon Sherlock noticed somebody in the distance. A man, obviously, who was walking towards the detective unhurriedly. The closer he got, the more Sherlock realised that he knew this person._

 _Because it was John, strolling confidently across the vast green expanse._

 _"Oh, great!" the detective rolled his eyes. "Brilliant idea. And that's supposed to help me how, exactly?"_

 _"A familiar face should make the process easier for you, Curious One," not-John (Sherlock decided to call him that, simply because he liked the original better) answered with perfect calm._

 _"I'd rather stick with the voice, if you don't mind," Sherlock declared confidently._

 _"As you wish," not-John nodded and disappeared into the thin air, causing Sherlock to blink in surprise and shake his head. "The questions, Curious One."_

 _"Are you always acting so spontaneously?" Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of stretching out on the blanket, hands behind his head. "Okay. First question. Am I supposed to be "untouchable" now? What was it that caused John's touch to be so… unpleasant?"_

 _"You're jumping to conclusions, Curious One. The energy in the world around you is unbalanced. Your friend is part of that world. You need to learn the art of synchronising."_

 _"And you are telling me this only now?" Sherlock scowled._

 _"The lessons of this world should be learnt by you on your own, Curious One. We are simply observers."_

 _"And they all call ME arrogant!" the detective chuckled. "I'm ready for my next lesson. Let's begin…"_

 _The next several hours were spent in constant attempts of balancing the maelstrom of energy that was raging around him. He definitely wasn't succeeding at first, and received a few painful energy blows – which were far worse than the one caused by John. But he stubbornly kept trying, and soon felt the energy flowing around him in steady currents. He couldn't comprehend rationally, how he managed to achieve that; but it felt like a part of his conscience was activated somehow, and he just knew suddenly what he needed to do. Still, all of that was far beyond his comprehension, and he decided just to take it for granted right now. After all, he was given a second chance, which meant plenty of time to get everything sorted out._

 _"You learned your lesson, Curious One," the voice interrupted his thoughts. "Time for you to return…"_

There was a flash of light, and Sherlock's eyes flew open. John was leaning over him, concern evident on his face.

"I'm okay," Sherlock said weakly. "It was just a dream."

John's hand unconsciously found its way towards Sherlock's shoulder once again, but this time it felt right. It felt good, actually. Sighing contentedly, the detective smiled warmly at his friend. John squeezed his shoulder lightly and smiled in return. Then he let go, dragged a chair over and sat near Sherlock's bed. "I can read aloud, if you want," John suggested softly.

"That would be lovely," Sherlock closed his eyes and tuned in to John's voice. Exactly ten minutes later he slipped into deep, dreamless slumber.

Noticing that, John carefully closed the book, got up from his chair and quietly left the room…

* * *

The reason of John's departure was currently vibrating slightly in his pocket. He always put his phone on silent profile when he was with Sherlock, and usually went outside to talk, when he received a call. Today was no exception.

Mycroft's number came up on the screen, and John accepted the call immediately.

"We need to talk," said the elder Holmes shortly. "I'm waiting for you outside in my car."

"What happened?"

"Sherlock's in danger. Let's not waste any valuable time, John."

"Coming," John hit the button, terminating the conversation, and hurried outside.

Mycroft was precise and succinct, as always. "I'm bearing bad news, John. Somebody in my organisation relayed the information concerning Sherlock's whereabouts to his current adversary. We caught the traitor, but the damage is already done. There's going to be the second assassination attempt. We need to transfer Sherlock to the safe place. I've already given the necessary directions to my trusted people."

"He's awake, Mycroft," John interrupted quietly.

The elder Holmes was silent for a moment, and then he looked straight into John's eyes searchingly. "How is he?"

"Good, actually. No problems, so far. Completely lucid while awake. Drifts into sleep sometimes, but that's perfectly understandable. He is still weak, but recovering surprisingly fast."

"I'm glad to hear that, John," Mycroft allowed the slight smile touch the corners of his mouth. "In that case, I think it's time to execute my plan. I want to see my brother before he'll be transferred."

"Of course," John nodded, and they left the car, going back to Sherlock's VIP room.

The younger Holmes was still sleeping soundly, and Mycroft allowed himself the freedom of touching his brother, stroking his hair almost parentally.

Sherlock's immediate reaction was totally unexpected by both men. The detective moaned painfully, and started shivering violently. Alarmed, Mycroft jerked his hand away and backed off. John, on the contrary, touched Sherlock immediately, checking his condition. Sherlock's skin felt cold and clammy, and he was shaking continuously. Seeing his friend's lips turning blue, John panicked. He recognised the symptoms immediately; what he couldn't comprehend is WHY it was happening all of a sudden.

"John? What's going on?" called Mycroft, alarm sounding clear in his voice.

The ex-army doctor looked at him helplessly. "Sherlock's going into hypothermic shock. Don't ask me why, I honestly don't know. But we should act quickly - he is dangerously close to dying right now."

Mycroft nodded and hit the emergency call button on the wall…


	5. Transportation

A second later, Barlow burst into the room, followed by the medical team.

"What happened?" he demanded sternly, seeing the desperate expressions on both men's faces.

"Sherlock went into hypothermic shock all of a sudden," Mycroft replied calmly, an impassive mask slipping into place.

"That's impossible," the physician strolled towards his patient's bed, firmly pushing John aside, and started to check Sherlock's vitals. When Mycroft's words appeared to be the truth, Barlow frowned and turned to his team. "I need a thermal blanket and a heart monitor here, stat!"

Five minutes later, when the heart monitor was successfully installed, and Sherlock was warming up nicely under the blanket, Barlow turned his attention to John.

"So, Doctor Watson," he said, gesturing for the ex-army medic to sit and dragging another chair over for himself. "Can you tell me exactly what happened here?"

Mycroft, who was observing everything silently from his position near the wall, cleared his throat politely. "Doctor Barlow, I'm afraid Doctor Watson can't answer your questions at the moment. I'm sure your superiors have already notified you that we're transferring my brother into another, more secure place."

The physician looked at the older Holmes with irritation. "Yes, I've heard about it. And I've already voiced my disagreement. With all due respect, sir, I'm not thrilled about the necessity to relinquish my patient's care…"

Mycroft interrupted him firmly. "I didn't say anything about relinquishing. On the contrary, doctor. You're actually coming with us."

"But…"

"It has already been decided and discussed with your superiors, Doctor Barlow. So stop wasting the precious time and get everything ready for the transfer, please," Mycroft's voice rose slightly at the last word, and Barlow shuddered visibly, caught in the tide of Mycroft's authority. The politician raised his eyebrow and looked at the physician pointedly. The doctor seemed to snap out of his reverie and immediately rose from the chair, hurrying towards the door and starting to bark commands as soon as he opened it.

"Where are we going?" John asked when Barlow left the room.

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Learning the art of conspiracy, aren't you, John? Good, very good. I'm taking Sherlock into the guarded government facility. Of course you will be able to visit him whenever you want, and you will be granted the necessary level of security clearance."

"For how long, Mycroft?" John left his sentence unfinished, but both men knew precisely what the ex-army doctor meant.

"I'm working on it, John. That sort of thing usually takes some time to sort out."

John nodded, obviously satisfied with that answer. And right after that, the door opened wide, letting through the medical team with the fully equipped gurney. In a matter of seconds Sherlock was carefully transferred onto that gurney, hooked to the machinery which started to register his current condition, and rolled out of the room. Mycroft and John followed the gurney towards an unidentifiable black van, parked just outside the entrance to the clinic. There the gurney was lifted up and into the vehicle, then the three men – Doctor Barlow, Mycroft and John – swiftly got inside, and the van immediately sped away…

* * *

 _Cold. Unbearable, inescapable cold. The freezing claws dug viciously into every cell of his body, tearing him apart, leaving him numb and helpless. He tried to protect himself, to create some sort of shelter – but he was too weak, and his feeble attempts were swept aside easily._

 _Finally, he gave up and humbly accepted the fact that he wasn't going to get out of this alive. It was ironic, really – he managed to survive the clinical death only to be frozen alive by some unknown power. Grasping at straws, he weakly called out for his 'teacher', hoping at least to die knowing what had killed him._

 _And the voice answered immediately, deep and soothing. "Fear not, Curious One, you will prevail. This is not the end of your journey."_

 _"Kind of hoped that it isn't. But the temperature around here really needs some tuning," Sherlock managed, slowly starting to fade away. "Hey, if I'm already unconscious, does it mean that I'm slipping into a coma?"_

 _"You must stay alert, Curious One. We need to teach you the art of protection in your sleep."_

 _Suddenly the feeling of warmth washed over him, seeping into each and every cell of his body, and he gratefully accepted it, relaxing into it blissfully. "Thank you," he whispered._

 _"Your praise is wrongly placed, Curious One. There are many souls that care for you. The living souls. They had reached out for you."_

 _"No-one cares for me," Sherlock answered flatly. "Well, except, maybe…"_

 _"You are wrong. Just look close enough – and you will see them."_

 _"Maybe. But for now, I'd rather learn something new, if you don't mind. So, you were saying something about the protection in my sleep?"_

 _"You can choose to not acknowledge the truth, Curious One. But it won't remain hidden forever."_

 _"Can we skip the part with the lecture, please? I'm not in the mood to discuss philosophical matters right now. Especially when my safety depends on me knowing how to protect myself. So?"_

 _Sherlock could swear that he heard a sigh of exasperation from his mentor. There was a long pause, and finally the voice said with resignation, "Very well. We will teach you to shield yourself in your sleep, Curious One…"_

 _The shield turned out to be, in fact, a thin iridescent bubble, which enveloped his body completely. At first, Sherlock seriously doubted that such a fragile thing is capable of protecting him from anything. But when it successfully withstood an onslaught of energy blows – several variables of them, in fact – the detective was definitely glad to admit that he was wrong._

 _The last part of the shield training included mainly the process of creating the actual shield and the techniques of keeping it intact and charged with energy. Sherlock used the opportunity to practice a little; but he knew perfectly well that the real test of this new skill was still ahead._

 _Nevertheless, his mentor deemed his level of ability sufficient, and allowed Sherlock to drift into a deep, refreshing sleep. The detective, of course, was happy to comply almost immediately…_

* * *

Even without Sherlock's observational skills John could see that Mycroft wasn't at all pleased with the situation. Judging by the slight frown on the older man's forehead, something had definitely gone wrong. The trip was obviously taking longer than he expected, and Mycroft was reaching for the intercom, when it abruptly cracked with static, coming alive.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?"

The elder Holmes moved closer to the communication panel. "Yes. What's going on?"

"I'm afraid we've been being followed, sir, for half an hour at least."

"By whom?"

"Hard to tell, sir. We still can't identify the car's owner; the search keeps coming back empty. It looks like this car doesn't exist."

"How far are we from the final destination?"

"We were forced to take the alternative route. And as long as we're tailed…"

"Execute Plan B."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Consider this the official authorization."

"Very well, sir. The ride may be a bit bumpy, though, I think you should take the necessary precautions, sir."

"Of course," Mycroft terminated the connection.

Right after that, there was a metallic clang, and the armoured panels slid down, sealing the windows of the vehicle. Mycroft nodded with satisfaction and turned towards the two other men.

"Doctor Barlow, John, could you please secure the gurney? And I think we should strap Sherlock down, just in case. Don't worry, John," he added, noticing the concerned expression on the ex-army medic's face. "If he wakes up, you will be near. In that case, just keep talking. Now, gentlemen, I think it's time to buckle in."

Five minutes later the three men were strapped into their seats and the forth still slept soundly, securely held in place by the Velcro straps.

As the van started to pick up speed, it soon became clear that the precautions weren't unnecessary, because two minutes later a storm of bullets hit the right side of the vehicle. Precisely at the same moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he started to struggle, calling John's name frantically.

The blond doctor gripped his friend's hand tightly, anchoring him to reality. "I'm here, Sherlock. Calm down. Everything is going to be alright."

The detective seemed to hear him, and the struggles ceased immediately. Turning his palm upwards, Sherlock clasped John's hand in return, and his eyes closed slowly. 'This is bizarre,' John thought, continuing to hold onto Sherlock's hand and silently wishing for everything to just stop; but the car still kept accelerating, and the bullets kept hitting.

And suddenly, as if having heard him, it did stop. The car shook with the force of an impact, slid to a halt, then tilted dangerously, and started to tip over. The last thing that John remembered was Mycroft reaching out for his younger brother, and then nothing…


	6. Deceptive Appearances

John jerked awake with a start and looked around in confusion. Somebody was calling his name, and, finally managing to locate the source of the voice, the doctor was relieved to see Sherlock conscious and looking at him intently. Another quick glance around confirmed the facts that the car definitely landed on its side and the other two passengers appeared to be unconscious.

Their hands were still clasping each other, and John gave Sherlock's palm a reassuring squeeze. "How are you feeling?"

"Uncomfortable," was the immediate reply, and the younger man tugged on his restraints. "What happened and can you please get those things off me?"

"Somebody pursued us, and we sort of got pushed off the road, apparently. And no, I don't know the full details, so no point in asking," John answered hastily, seeing the annoyed expression on his friend's face.

"Pretty succinct explanation, John, but actually, I wanted to know why we left the clinic," Sherlock replied impatiently. "And hurry up with the belts; they are cutting off the blood flow."

The blond did a quick job on his own belts and mentally praised himself for the decision to sit across Mycroft and Barlow – he ended on his back as a result, whereas the two men were practically hanging down from their seats. The law of gravity shoved Sherlock to the left side of the gurney, and the Velcro straps held him there securely, so getting him down required a step-by-step procedure. John mapped it out in his head and was ready to execute the first stage, when the van unexpectedly started to change its position again. At first the ex-army medic thought that they were going to continue the descent, but soon it become apparent that somebody was trying to push the vehicle back onto its wheels. And, judging by the fact that that 'somebody' hadn't made an immediate attempt to break inside, John sincerely hoped that they were finally being rescued.

His hope was confirmed when their mobiles started ringing one by one. Barlow was still unresponsive, Mycroft stirred slightly, but he was far from regaining his senses completely. So John pulled his phone out and took the call. He was really surprised to see Lestrade's number on the screen. "Greg? Is that you?"

The DI was obviously relieved to hear him. "John? Are you all okay in there?"

Another surprise. "Wait, how did you know…"

"I got a call from Mycroft Holmes' PA. She sent a car to collect me, along with the group of trusted operatives. They tracked the van's beacon, and… Here we are. Are you okay?"

"Yes, but we'll be very grateful if you'll finally succeed in getting this car into traditional position," John said cheerfully.

Lestrade chuckled. "Hold on for a second, we're working on it. Oh, and take necessary precautions, the process might be a bit rough."

"Actually, we already did. Not long before our car attempted to do the bloody flip-flop," the doctor grumbled.

"Don't worry, it all will be over soon," Lestrade soothed. "Alright, brace yourself; we're ready to give her a good shove!"

Only when John hang up did he realise that Sherlock was tapping his arm insistently and noticed the pained expression on his friend's face…

* * *

As soon as John took the call, Sherlock's skin started tingling, in an unpleasant way. It felt like tiny drops of acid were hitting his skin continuously. The detective couldn't place the source of the feeling at first, but a moment later it dawned on him.

Lestrade. The Detective Inspector clearly felt wrong. Not that Sherlock had the chance to get a precise feeling of the man before – Lestrade hadn't visited him in the clinic. But the younger man seriously doubted that DI was really so… caustic.

Alarmed by that realisation and wincing in pain, Sherlock desperately tried to get John's attention. But his friend was so engrossed in conversation that paid absolutely no attention to Sherlock's signals. The drops turned into wider splashes, and the detective started writhing in his restraints, but kept tapping his friend's arm almost convulsively.

When John finally noticed him, Sherlock was barely clinging to consciousness, but still managed to utter a warning. "Something… not right… Lestrade… Wake Mycroft… please…"

At that moment the van shook with another impact, jolting its passengers, and Mycroft finally regained his consciousness. He frowned, seeing his brother so distraught and attempted to unbuckle the belts which still held him practically suspended in mid-air.

"Mycroft..," Sherlock moaned, slipping away. "Danger… Don't…"

Darkness swallowed him mercifully, and Sherlock welcomed it with relief…

* * *

Another shudder – and the car finally landed on its wheels. Mycroft practically yanked the belts off himself. "Danger? What he was talking about?" he demanded with irritation.

"Apparently, something's wrong with Lestrade," John explained, an uneasy feeling settling in his chest.

"DI Lestrade? He is here? Why?"

"He said that your PA phoned him. Sort of a rescue operation," John said, sounding uncertain even for himself.

The politician's expression hardened instantly. "I didn't expect you to be so gullible, Doctor. Sherlock's right, we're definitely in danger."

"Why?" John asked dumbly, already hating himself.

"Need I remind you that we're attempting to covertly transfer my brother into a highly guarded facility? So, taking that into account, it's a little strange for my PA to summon the ordinary DI for that purpose, don't you think? You're a military man, Doctor; you should be familiar with the tactic of deception."

"To tell the truth, receiving a call from him was kind of odd," the blond admitted reluctantly. "So what are we going to do now?"

"Fight," the politician replied curtly, reaching out for his umbrella.

"Without weaponry?" John shook his head. "Pointless."

"Check the compartment to the left of your seat," Mycroft instructed, turning the handle of his umbrella clockwise. There was a soft click, and the brolly turned out to be nothing more than a sheath for the triangular steel blade.

John raised his eyebrows but chose not to comment, reaching instead into mentioned compartment and drawing out his favourite weapon of choice - a Browning L9A1. Now they were ready, he thought with grim satisfaction, checking the gun and clicking the safety off…

* * *

 _He found himself in the living room of Baker Street 221B again, but this time it didn't sooth or comfort him._

 _"Alright, I think we have one very important matter to discuss," Sherlock said with irritation. "Can you explain why I continue to pass out so often? And what's the point in having a gift if I can't even protect myself?"_

 _For a moment, there was silence, and then the voice finally answered. "What do you want, Curious One?"_

 _"Full-time protection. Something like the shield I have during the night, only now it should function 24/7. And I want to be able to use energy as a weapon. For self-defence."_

 _"The power that you're asking for may cost you greatly. Should anything go wrong, it will tear apart your very soul. You can't master it alone; you need to find the Quiet One."_

 _"How, exactly? Give me a clue; I need something to start with!"_

 _"Look for magenta. You'll know it when you'll see it."_

 _"Okay, thanks, I'll keep that in mind. Now, about the self-defence… There was one occasion when I'd managed to damage all electronic equipment around me incidentally… Can I learn to do it on purpose? Sometimes it comes in very handy, you know…"_

 _That was definitely the wrong thing to say, because the temperature in the room dropped considerably, and the voice turned quite cold. "There's a one grand rule for using the gift, Curious One. You can't turn it to harm other beings, or you'll be punished greatly."_

 _"Yeah? And what if those beings attempt to harm ME?"_

 _"You should learn to protect yourself. That will be enough."_

 _"Great. Tell that to guys with the big guns," Sherlock bit out sarcastically._

 _"Violence accomplishes nothing. There are other ways to gain victory over your adversary. You should learn the works of mind control, Curious One."_

 _"Yes, of course; with pleasure. But right now I need to use brute force, I'm afraid. Or there will be no opportunity to learn all that wonderful stuff afterwards. I'm asking for a one-time small exception to the rule. There are lives at stake, and I can't lose them."_

 _The voice was silent for a while and then, finally, announced the decision. "We are granting that exception to you. But should you attempt…"_

 _"I know, I know, bolt of lightning and all that. Now can we get down to business? I'm sort of having a deadline here…"_

 _"Time is relative, Curious One. What feels like eternity here passes like mere seconds in your world."_

 _"Again with the riddles, but I think I understand what you are talking about. Let's not waste it, then."_

 _Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed learning the what's and how's of the process he'd fondly nicknamed 'lashing out', and spent a considerable amount of time practicing that new skill. Even if he got to use it only once, he still was honour-bound to do that perfectly, he decided._

 _To put it simply, he just needed to visualise some sort of an energy tsunami and then unleash it in the desired direction. There was only one problem this time: in 'simulations', as he called it, everything worked perfectly; but in reality, he had only one chance to succeed._

It was now or never; the detective snapped back into consciousness, eyes wide open, and prepared to deliver the strike. He was just in time to see the back doors of the van being wrenched open, and immediately lashed out, noticing a second too late that one of the camouflaged men was holding a gun to Lestrade's temple.

Judging by the way all four men, which were standing outside the van, simultaneously crumpled to the ground, Sherlock clearly had succeeded. But right after that, things took a quite unexpected turn, because John whirled around, pointing the gun at him and yelling 'What the hell do you think you're doing?', and a second later Sherlock felt the tip of Mycroft's blade press into the hollow of his throat…


	7. Revelation

"Mycroft," Sherlock said weakly. "You're jumping to the wrong conclusions."

The energy attack sapped his strength completely; he could barely utter the words. So even if he wasn't restrained, there was nothing he could do to protect himself. He could totally understand his brother's reaction, though – becoming witness to the things you can't explain rationally usually tends to come as a bit of a shock, to put it lightly.

Luckily, right at that moment John seemed to finally snap out of his reverie and he immediately attempted to sort things out by distracting the politician. "I think I should check on Lestrade, see if he's alright," the blond said conversationally. Mycroft's gaze shifted to the left for a moment, and that was quite enough for the ex-army doctor to reach out and grab the end of the blade, drawing it away from his friend's neck. The blade turned out to be very sharp, and John cut his hand almost immediately, but continued to grip the dangerous weapon.

"Very brave, John," there was a hint of amusement in the older Holmes' voice, and John's eyes snapped back to Mycroft's face. "But what if the blade had been poisoned? You could've died almost instantly, leaving Sherlock unprotected. Not the wisest decision on your part," the politician clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. "Now, you were saying something about checking on Inspector Lestrade, Doctor? And while you're at it, a quick assessment of the whole situation outside would be nice."

John finally let go of the blade, and Mycroft re-sheathed it with caution.

"I think you should let him take care of those cuts first, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted quietly. "He's bleeding, don't you see that?"

"Of course, Sherlock," the older Holmes replied coolly, taking the pristine handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it out for John. "But we're in a sort of a sensitive situation here, dear brother. First of all, we must ensure our safety. The rest can be taken care of later."

"He's right, Sherlock," John wound the white cloth around his hand. "We should get you somewhere safe. I'll live."

Without further hesitation, the doctor readjusted his grip on the gun, got up and carefully crept out of the van.

"There are only three of them," he called back in a low voice. "Except Lestrade, of course. And I'm fairly sure that he's an unwilling participant in all of this, Mycroft," John stooped down to check for a pulse on the Inspector's neck. "He's alive, just unconscious. Heartbeat is steady. I think Sherlock knocked them out, but I don't know for how long. There's another van parked near, they obviously came quite prepared. The front seat is empty, so one of those three is the driver. Oh, and speaking about drivers: I hate to break it to you, Mycroft, but your men are dead."

"That's unfortunate," Mycroft reached out to unbuckle the belts which were holding Sherlock down, and the younger man shivered, feeling the cold sensation spreading across his skin. "Check the other van, John. I think we'll need to borrow it."

Sherlock struggled with the creation of the shield for a few moments, finally succeeding, and the freezing numbness faded away in instant. Meanwhile his brother finished unfastening the belts, and the dark-haired man gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position. Something felt off, and he glanced around, searching for the source of his discomfort. It took him a few moments to realise that the source was, in fact, Doctor Barlow himself, who was slumped in his seat, seemingly unconscious.

"What's wrong with Barlow, Mycroft? You're closer to him, could you..," Sherlock prompted, carefully lowering his legs onto the floor.

The older Homes reached out and placed two fingers on the physician's neck, checking for a pulse; then delivered a slap across his face. Barlow jerked upright and his eyes flew open instantly.

"Welcome back, Doctor Barlow," Mycroft said pleasantly. "Now would you be so kind to take care of your patient for the moment? I need to join Doctor Watson outside."

"Sure, but…"

"There's no time for questions right now, I'm afraid," the politician interrupted firmly. "We need to find temporary shelter, and only then will I be able to answer your questions, Doctor," with that, the older man rose to his feet swiftly and left the van.

Barlow looked at Sherlock in confusion for the moment, and then snapped into the doctor mode. "How are you feeling, Mister Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please. I'm alright, no injuries. A slight headache, but it's bearable."

"I need to ask you to lie down, I'm afraid. You still not fully recovered, and moving around in your condition isn't the best idea."

"I'm not going to move around, Stanley," Sherlock replied, arching his back and sighing with obvious relief. "I just need to stretch a little. I'm not particularly fond of lying around for so long."

Barlow frowned, concern evident on his face. "Are you having muscle cramps, Sherlock?"

"Well, my shoulders are a bit stiff, but apart from that I'm perfectly okay," the detective confessed reluctantly.

"You should've mentioned that earlier," the physician admonished sternly. "Would you like me to take care of your shoulders now, while we have the time?"

"Are you talking about a massage?" Sherlock clarified, suddenly feeling a bit apprehensive. He was still adjusting to his new gifts, and right now wasn't entirely sure as to how he would react to Barlow's touch.

The physician saw his troubled expression, and hastened to placate him. "Yes, but if you consider my offer inappropriate..."

"No, it's a good idea, but I think that we don't have enough time right now to do it properly. Maybe when we get somewhere safe."

"Agreed. And meanwhile I need to examine you, just to be completely sure that you're okay. Lie down, please…"

* * *

John inspected the other van thoroughly, finding it perfectly equipped for their purpose. Those guys, whoever they were, obviously came prepared. The car keys were missing though – the driver must've taken them, when he got out of the car. Which meant that now John needed to search all three of them, since he didn't know which one was the driver. Sighing, John turned around and immediately spotted Mycroft, who was leaning over the still unconscious Detective Inspector.

"John," he called, studying the man's face intently. "Can you drive?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just in case the Inspector won't be able to. Apropos, John: I think we should try to wake him up. Let's not waste any precious time."

Desperate times call for desperate measures, John decided, and pressed a painful area on Lestrade's left hand. That proved to be quite sufficient, because in the next moment the police inspector was jerking his hand back and opening his eyes.

"Welcome back to the land of living, Greg," the ex-army medic said warmly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was hit by a truck," the Detective Inspector grumbled. "What happened?"

"Actually, it wasn't a truck. It was Sherlock who knocked you out."

"How?"

"I have absolutely no idea. But more importantly, there's no time for questions right now. Can you walk?"

Lestrade gingerly rose to his feet and took a step forward. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. How about driving?"

"Quite a headlong approach, John, but yes, I think I'll manage."

"That's wonderful news. We need to move Sherlock into the other van and get the hell out of here, Greg."

"No objection from me," Lestrade turned towards the crashed van and spotted Mycroft. "Sir?"

"Later, Inspector. You can explain everything later. As for now – can you get us to Sussex?"

"Depends of the exact location, sir."

"Chichester."

"Most definitely, sir."

"Well then, let's transfer my brother into the other van, as John had already said. It's time for us to depart…"

* * *

It took about ten minutes for them to get into the other car – considering that they had to climb the small slope to reach it – and finally, when everyone was comfortably settled (including Lestrade, who took his place behind the wheel), their journey continued.

Mycroft took a seat in the front with Lestrade; Sherlock, John and Doctor Barlow were in the back. And of course, both parties were having quite animated conversations.

"I think we should abandon this car as soon as possible, sir. There's a chance that we're being tracked," Lestrade kept his eyes firmly on the road and the rear-view mirrors.

"I'm afraid this is undoubtedly so, Inspector. But unfortunately, we can't do that until we'll reach Chichester. There's no point in calling the cavalry right now, it might be intercepted before it comes to rescue us; we'll change the car in Chichester."

"So it's not the final point of our journey then."

"Not exactly. Our family owns the small estate not far from there. A suitable place for spending a necessary amount of time in hiding. Perfect in our case…"

The conversation in the back of the car was going in similar way; the only difference consisted of a topic about Sherlock's condition being included.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?" John couldn't stop himself from touching his friend continuously, mindless of Barlow's presence. "Why are we going to Chichester?"

Sherlock reveled in John's touch, a warm, pleasant tingling spreading throughout his body. He was so caught up in the sensation that John had to repeat the question, much louder this time. Sherlock's dreamy eyes focused on his face, and then the younger man blinked slowly. "What?"

"Chichester, Sherlock. Focus," John repeated patiently, his hand sweeping up and down Sherlock's arm without the good doctor even realising it. That wasn't helpful at all, and finally the detective had to grab the said hand to stop the distraction.

"We have a family estate near Chichester. Mycroft must've decided to seek refuge there. Can't blame him; it has beautiful grounds. You'll like it there, I promise. And of course the same goes for you, Stanley," Sherlock glanced at Barlow and the physician answered with the warm smile.

"Thank you, Sherlock, but sightseeing is not my top priority. You recovery is going quite well, but I would prefer to keep an eye on you for some time."

"Sure, but that doesn't mean that you should keep your vigil over me 24 hours a day. And besides, Doctor Watson definitely would be happy to share your responsibility, wouldn't you, John?" the dark-haired man smiled at his companion and, receiving an affirming nod, turned his attention back to the sandy-haired doctor. "Carpe diem, Stanley. Carpe diem."

John's thumb was stroking the inner side of Sherlock's wrist lightly, and the detective felt himself gradually becoming drowsy. There was nothing wrong with having a quick nap, he decided; but before he faded away, there was a brief moment, which almost pulled him back – a flash of colour, suspiciously looking like… magenta? Sherlock struggled furtively to remain awake, to capture the source, to comprehend what exactly he was seeing, but his usually overactive brain was rapidly shutting down.

'Not the best time to start imagining things,' was his last conscious thought, and then he was falling, spiralling into a deep dreamless slumber.

When Sherlock's grip on his hand went lax, John smiled slightly, tugged his hand free and leaned back in his seat. It was working, like the voice in his dream had promised. He could still hear the last words that had been said to him just before Sherlock's voice pulled him out of unconsciousness.

"Your paths have been brought together to fulfil the greater cause. You are to guide and he is to follow; through him you will find the wisdom, and through you he will find the strength. There's a long journey ahead of you, Quiet One; but fear not, because you shall not be alone anymore…"

Soulmates, John thought, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. He could definitely live with that, especially considering the fact that Sherlock would be the other part of the equation…


	8. Friends and Foes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: minor characters deaths in the end of the chapter.

The van continued its progress in the direction of Chichester. Sherlock was sound asleep with Barlow constantly keeping an eye on him, so John allowed his mind to drift away. Still leaning back in his seat, he remembered the strange dream that he had while he was unconscious after the moment their previous car went over…

 _There was a vast grassy field around him, stretching out as far as he could see. A light wind blew gently, causing the tall grass to shift constantly; it looked as if green waves rolled around him, one after another. John was totally mesmerized by the scenery, and therefore hadn't paid attention to the voice which called out to him. Not right away, at least._

 _But the voice appeared to be quite persistent, calling out over and over, until John finally gave up his attempts to ignore it, and reluctantly tuned in._

" _Greetings, Quiet One. We were waiting for this moment for a long time," the voice said pleasantly, not at all put out by John's stubbornness._

 _John frowned slightly, puzzled by the way the invisible stranger chose to address him, and attempted to clear the subject right away. "Um… I'm sorry, are you talking to me? Because I don't…"_

" _There's no need to apologise, Quiet One. We do realise that the name sounds unusual to you, but your confusion will pass soon."_

 _The blond doctor's frown deepened. "Ah, forgive me my bluntness, but… Who the hell are you, actually?"_

 _There was a shift in the air, resembling a slight chuckle. "We knew we would like you," the voice said_ _with_ _affection,_ _all the while continuing to ignore John's growing annoyance._

" _That's nice of you," the blond replied in a tight voice. A sudden thought struck him, and he shifted from foot to foot uneasily. "Wait, am I dead? Is that what this is all about?"_

 _There was a moment of silence, and then a quiet laughter. "No, you aren't, Quiet One. Calm down."_

 _Tired and annoyed, the ex-army doctor looked around, then turned to the right and started walking. He had no idea where he was going; his only desire at the moment was simply to get away from… well, from whatever it was, actually._

 _Dreams, he mused, can be completely bizarre sometimes._

 _As if proving that thought, everything around him started shifting, and a moment later he found himself walking through the door to the living room of their flat._

 _He_ _stopped in his tracks and cautiously looked around._

 _Yep, still the living room, exactly how he had remembered it._

 _He edged carefully towards his favourite armchair and sat down slowly. His mind was obviously playing tricks with him, making him see things that weren't there; but still, who said that he couldn't get something out of it?_

" _Of course you can," the voice confirmed, sounding casually and making John jerk in his seat._

" _Don't do that to me!" John yelped, looking around frantically and still seeing nothing. "Alright, out with it! What the HELL is going on here?"_

" _We apologise for frightening you, Quiet One, that wasn't our intention," the voice continued, sounding genuinely apologetic. "We weren't sure how to approach you, hence the misunderstanding."_

" _You sound like Mycroft," John remarked promptly, and then decided to elaborate for some reason. "I mean, that's probably what he would've said in situation like this… I'm not making any sense, am I?"_

" _Quite the opposite," the voice reassured. "Is that manner of conversation acceptable for you?"_

" _Yeah, I guess," the blond agreed reluctantly. "But can I ask you for something? Don't adapt his voice, please, because that would be downright creepy."_

" _We will not," the voice promised succinctly. "Do you have any questions, Quiet One?"_

" _Actually, I do. Why do you keep calling me that? I have a name, you know..."_

" _You are one half of the whole, Quiet One. There's a man we have called the Curious One; he is your other half and your responsibility. Your task is to guide and to protect him."_

 _Oh, here we go. "Well, thanks a lot," John replied sarcastically. "As if I don't have enough of that with Sherlock... Wait a minute!"_

 _The amount of spontaneous realisations in this dream was frightening, to say the least, John thought absently._

" _Yes, you're right," the voice confirmed. "The one that you call Sherlock..."_

" _Yeah, don't bother, I get the picture," the doctor interrupted impatiently. "Kind of doing it already, you know. Guiding and protecting, I mean."_

" _Not on a large scale," the voice contradicted firmly. "You both have a far greater purpose."_

" _And that would be..?" John enquired, not at all liking the perspective. This was starting to look WAY above and beyond the call of duty, actually. He liked Sherlock, he really did; but all that stuff was sounding like the bloody quixotic crusade, and John already had quite enough on his plate, thank you very much._

" _Everything comes in its proper time," the voice elaborated cryptically. "For now, you should learn a few things that would be required of you in order to help you and the Curious One serve your purpose."_

" _Well, it seems like I don't have a choice on the matter, do I?" John sighed in resignation. "Okay, back to classes, shall we?"_

 _It turned out that his studies were quite interesting after all; his invisible mentor outlined the whole process for him, not failing to mention that he should attend his 'classes' as often as possible._

 _Which immediately brought John to another realisation. "So that must be the reason Sherlock passes out so often!" the doctor exclaimed. "He's learning, isn't he?"_

" _Quite correct, Quiet One," there was a warm note in his mentor's voice. "Now, let us begin. Your first lesson is how to control the Curious One with your hands..."_

' _Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to enjoy this!' John thought, smirking inwardly..._

 _He always was a fairly quick learner, and it didn't take long for him to get a grip on the basics of the required process. But that was just the theoretical part; now he needed to master it practically._

 _The voice chose to part with him till the next time with sort of a blessing. "Your paths have been brought together to fulfil a greater purpose. You are to guide and he is to follow; through him you will find the wisdom, and through you he will find the strength. There's a long journey ahead of you, Quiet One; but fear not, because you shall not be alone anymore."_

 _And a moment later the voice of his 'other half' had pulled John back into the land of living..._

* * *

The rest of the way to Chichester John managed to keep Sherlock in a state of a deep sleep. It turned out to be quite easy – all it took for John is to stroke his friend's arm lightly the moment Sherlock began to stir. It seemed to calm the detective immediately, and he slipped back into sleep, allowing John to continue his quite interesting conversation with Barlow. The sandy-haired doctor had obviously noticed John's strange behaviour and his patient's reaction to it, but wisely chose not to ask any questions.

The topic of their conversation, unsurprisingly, was related to their mutual profession. It turned out that Sherlock wasn't the first patient with the Lazarus Syndrome in Barlow's practice; but he was the first who survived it without the dire consequences – 'so far so good', as the physician remarked.

Gradually starting to put two and two together, John came to the conclusion that his flatmate not only survived the discussed syndrome unscathed, but actually managed to acquire some interesting abilities along the way. It was like the missing pieces of the puzzle were sliding into their corresponding places – the fireworks in Sherlock's room at the clinic, the hypothermic shock and, finally, the mysterious incident with their attackers.

And all that, in turn, seemed to bring into light another quite interesting question.

The ex-army medic suddenly became aware that Barlow was calling out to him worriedly. "John! John, are you alright? What happened?"

Glancing down at his soundly sleeping soulmate, John met Barlow's concerned gaze steadily. "Nothing, just… spaced out for a moment, I guess."

The physician gave a sigh of relief. "Good. I was starting to worry a little. You actually look very tired, John. Perhaps you should consider taking a break. I'll keep an eye on Sherlock, don't worry."

'The perfect opportunity to ask some questions, then', John thought briefly. "Actually, you're right, I can use some shuteye. Thanks for understanding."

"Nothing to thank me for, John," Barlow smiled warmly, and that was the last thing John saw before he closed his eyes and instantly faded away…

* * *

 _This time, there was a fire in the fireplace, and the last rays of the setting sun slithered through the loosely drawn curtains. His mentor obviously had good taste, John thought briefly, making his way over to his favourite chair._

 _"We're glad that it pleases you, Quiet One," the voice immediately commented. "But you obviously didn't come here to simply enjoy the scenery, do you?"_

 _"Correct and straight to the point," John agreed. "I have a couple of questions, in fact."_

 _"Then, by all means, ask them," the voice encouraged softly._

 _"Is Sherlock..," John began, but then swiftly corrected himself. "Is the Curious One aware of my existence? In practical sense, I mean. Can he detect who I really am?"_

 _"Yes, but only if you choose to reveal yourself to him. Otherwise – no, your identity will remain hidden. Except maybe the moments when he's at the edge of sleep, only then he can detect your presence subconsciously."_

 _"And if I choose to reveal myself... What will it look like for him?"_

 _"He will see a specific colour around your body."_

 _"You mean, like an aura? And that's all? Only a colour?"_

 _"Yes, and that's quite enough for recognition."_

 _"Right. And the colour is..."_

 _"Magenta."_

 _"Oh. Well, that's... flattering, I guess."_

 _Suddenly, a gust of cold wind blew through the room, making John shiver slightly. "You should return immediately, Quiet One. He needs you now."_

 _"Okay. Till the next time, then?"_

 _"Of course..."_

* * *

Somebody was trying to shake him awake insistently, and, opening his eyes, John met Barlow's concerned gaze.

"Oh thank God, you're finally awake!" the physician let go of John's shoulder and moved back to his seat. "Seems like we have arrived in Chichester. And I can't get Sherlock awake."

The side door of the van slid open at this moment, and Mycroft Holmes climbed inside, his eyes accessing the surrounding situation swiftly. "Is everything alright? It's time for us to change the vehicle. Can Sherlock walk on his own?"

Visualising a flow of revitalising energy through the tips of his fingers, John slid his hand along Sherlock's arm. The detective's eyelids fluttered open and he stirred slightly.

"Sherlock?" the elder Holmes called quietly, watching as his brother gingerly attempted to sit up. "How are you feeling?"

The younger man's eyes focused slowly on his older sibling's face. "Sleepy," he yawned. "What's going on, Mycroft?"

"We're in Chichester, Sherlock. We need to abandon this car. Can you walk?"

"To the storehouse? How far are we from it, Mycroft?"

"Approximately two blocks, Sherlock. Can you make it?"

"Not sure. What are the other options?"

"You, John and Doctor Barlow stay here; Detective Inspector and I get the car."

"Not quite inspiring, Mycroft. I'll walk."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Let's stop wasting our time and start moving, shall we?"

* * *

Sherlock clearly overestimated his strength, and it was quite a torture for John to see his friend stumbling along with all of them whilst obviously being at the end of his endurance. The doctor ached to reach out and support his soulmate with a much needed burst of energy; but unfortunately, it meant outing themselves completely, and John was still reluctant to do so while Mycroft was around, especially considering the politician's recent reaction to Sherlock's little performance about the attackers. So he vowed to come clean with Sherlock as soon as they would be able to seclude themselves from the others.

Meanwhile their short journey had come to an end in front of the old locked storehouse. The building was evidently kept in a good condition, so John was positively sure that Mycroft obviously had some sort of a storehouse fetish. The ex-army medic couldn't help but to comment on that matter – albeit quite amiably. "What is it with you and storehouses, Mycroft? I'm starting to suspect that you have an unhealthy obsession with them. Should we be concerned about it?"

Not dignifying John's questions with a response, the politician strolled forward confidently, but Lestrade's friendly pat on the shoulder, Barlow's amused smile and Sherlock's throaty chuckle told John that his attempt actually hit the bull's eye, even if the result was partial.

Mycroft made a quick job of opening the locked door and turned back to his fellow travellers. "Detective Inspector, could you assist me, please?" he called out firmly. "There's a van parked at the back of this storehouse, the keys are inside. Would you be so kind?"

"Sure thing," Lestrade nodded and, quickly crossing the distance, disappeared behind the massive metal door, which started to slide aside right after the moment the elder Holmes pulled out the remote and pressed a button. A couple of minutes later they all heard the sound of an engine starting, and then the black van, driven by Lestrade, pulled out in the open and stopped across of them. The Detective Inspector stepped out of the car, opened the side door with a flourish and helped John, Sherlock and Barlow to get inside.

"Care to join me in the front, sir?" the DI turned to Mycroft and flashed him his trademark boyish grin. "I could use your help with finding the right way, you know."

"Certainly, Inspector," the politician went around the car and gracefully got into his seat. "Do get in, we ought to continue our journey; it's going to be dark soon..."

* * *

Three camouflaged men were standing at attention in the middle of the room. It lacked furniture, except a single leather armchair in front of them. The walls were painted with an oppressive grey colour, there weren't any windows, and one of the fluorescent lamps kept blinking on and off constantly; the men were clearly uncomfortable, and their current surroundings did nothing to ease their anxiety – if anything, said anxiety was only getting deeper with each passing moment.

Finally, a door behind them opened quietly, and a forth man in an expensive three-piece dove-grey suit stepped into the room. "At ease, gentlemen," he commanded, his voice unexpectedly soft. "Sorry to keep you waiting, there was an urgent matter."

The trio kept silent, but allowed themselves to relax slightly. The stranger made his way around them and went straight to the chair, lowering himself into it gracefully. His bleak colourless eyes studied all three men one after another, not failing to lock onto each one's eyes for a few seconds. One of the men shook his head slightly, as if trying to get rid of a sudden headache.

Obviously satisfied, the bleak-eyed mad pulled a nail file out of his pocket and started to tend to his perfect fingernails. "As you already know, my name is Norman Norton. And I clearly recall hiring you for one quite specific job, gentlemen. So would any of you kindly explain to me why the aforementioned job wasn't done?"

"We almost did it, sir," the man in the middle started to explain nervously. "We found Lestrade, tracked the van, and arranged the car crash. It all should've worked like a charm. But then something went wrong, very wrong. There was a man..."

"Tall, dark-haired, with grey-blue eyes?" Norton enquired indifferently.

"We didn't have time to look closely, sir. He... Somehow he managed to knock us out... Peter had his gun at Lestrade's temple, and the bloody thing just jammed! They all managed to escape in our car, sir. But we tracked them down, until Chichester, at least."

"And after that?" Norton's voice was still calm and disinterested.

"They abandoned the van, sir. Unfortunately, we have no idea where they went," the man in the middle finished uncomfortably.

"Yes, that's VERY unfortunate," Norton put the file back in his pocket and glanced up sharply. "And of course, seeing as the job wasn't done, I can't pay for it. I hope you understand that, gentlemen."

"But sir..," the man in the middle started to protest, but Norton's piercing stare seemed to silence him immediately.

"Garret, isn't it?" the gray-suited man enquired firmly, and, receiving an affirming nod, continued in even voice. "Well, Garret, let me enlighten you a little. The truth is, you should actually be happy with the fact that you've stayed alive. Because the man you were talking about – his name is Sherlock, by the way – could easily kill you with his mind, plain and simple."

Garret smirked. "Are you expecting me to believe that, Mister Norton?"

"Actually, Garret..." Norman Norton rose from the chair almost lazily, "it doesn't really matter. Have a nice day, gentlemen."

Briefly locking his eyes with each man, Norton left the room, closing the door carefully and leaning back against it, clearly waiting for something.

He didn't have to wait long – exactly three minutes later three gunshots sounded almost simultaneously within the room, followed by the dull thud with which three bodies hit the floor – again, almost simultaneously.

Norman Norton hummed slightly in satisfaction and looked at his PA. "Get rid of the bodies, Mister Melford. And fetch me a map of Sussex, please. It's time to start the hunt..."


	9. Coming Out, Settling In

After giving the necessary directions to Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes, intent on enjoying a brief moment of so needed rest. Something was nagging at the back of his mind though, and the politician frowned, trying to pinpoint the source of an unwelcome disturbance.

There was a quiet sigh on his right, and Mycroft's eyes flew open, coming to rest on the man behind the wheel. Ah, of course, how could he forget?

"There's no need to be so tense, Detective Inspector. And do ease up your grip on the steering wheel, or you'll be unable to drive quite soon. We can't have that."

"Sorry, sir," Lestrade flexed his arms, his whole body sagging for the moment, and then assuming more comfortable position. "Thank you, I hadn't realised..."

"Something's definitely bothering you. What is it?"

Mycroft already knew the answer to his question, but he preferred to give Lestrade a chance to sort out the situation without the unnecessary interference. It took nearly two minutes for the Detective Inspector to collect his thoughts and start speaking.

"Actually, it's the previous events, sir. My abduction, to be precise. I want to apologise for my unprofessional behaviour, which led to the event of me being captured and, in turn, used to capture all of you. Thank God it didn't happen."

"No need to apologise, Detective Inspector. I happen to know exactly who we are up against. And I can safely assure you that there's nothing you could've done to prevent that. A very powerful force is at play with the purpose of getting Sherlock off the board, and it will not stop until it reaches its goal."

"But why?"

"During his last investigation Sherlock obtained a piece of information which poses a significant threat to the leader of aforementioned force. He's a very dangerous man. And only Sherlock is capable to bring him and his organisation down once and for all."

"A new version of Moriarty?"

Mycroft considered his answer for a moment. "Moriarty is a child in comparison to Norman Norton, Inspector. You can trust me on that. Hopefully, Norton is unaware of Sherlock's whereabouts at the moment. But that won't last long, so we need to take the necessary precautions."

"Okay, let me get this straight. We need to hide Sherlock in order to prevent Norton getting to him?"

"Not exactly. We need to hide Sherlock in order to prepare him to his meeting with Norton."

"This doesn't make sense."

"On the contrary. Sherlock has already met Norton once. And we all know how it ended."

"You mean his clinical death?"

"Precisely. It was Norton's first attempt of taking Sherlock out of the equation. Doctor Watson was fortunate enough to get to Sherlock in time to save his life."

"Again," muttered Lestrade under his breath.

A ghost of a smile appeared on the politician's face. "Again, indeed. John Watson seems to have some sort of an sixth sense when it comes to the subject of dealing with my brother."

The DI glanced at him briefly. "You noticed that too?"

"Of course. It's hard NOT to notice, actually. But that doesn't mean he always will be able to save Sherlock. He's just a man, after all."

"So what's the plan?"

"Straight to the core of the problem, Detective Inspector?" a smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft's lips.

"You can call me Gregory, by the way. Or simply Greg. Either would do."

"Very well, Gregory. As for the plan – I would like to postpone that conversation until tomorrow morning, simply because it would require the presence of Sherlock and John - and Doctor Barlow, of course."

"No objection from me. Is that..."

"Our final destination? Yes, of course. We will need to stop for a moment until the gate opens."

"All right," Lestrade stepped on the brakes, and the van rolled to a stop in front of the solid iron gate.

Said gate, together with high stone walls, gave the impression of total safety and protection. The barbed wire on top of the walls and the security cameras were adding to the sum. And the gate obviously was monitored, because after a couple of minutes it started to open slowly, revealing the long alley of neatly trimmed trees, leading towards the mansion. Not your typical country house, but considering the owners, that should have been expected. Those were the exact thoughts of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, while he drove the black van towards the entrance of the mansion.

Doctor John Watson, however, was more straightforward in expressing his opinion on that matter, when he finally got out of the van. Of course he had assisted Sherlock and Doctor Barlow in leaving the van first, and only then cast a curious glance around. Taking in his surroundings with impressive ease, he turned to the lanky detective and raised an eyebrow.

"A castle, Sherlock? REALLY?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "A perfect place for seeking temporary refuge, as I already told you. You'll like it here, I promise."

"I should have guessed," John said, his eyes still scanning the magnificent building. It looked like a childhood dream come true: a three-floored castle with an octagonal towers on its corners, arched windows and even a moat around it, complete with a drawbridge. "Nothing about you or your family is ordinary, Sherlock."

"We have our moments. And besides, you haven't seen our park yet, John. You're in for a real treat, I promise."

"Not today, though, dear brother," Mycroft interrupted, starting to walk towards the lowering drawbridge. "It was a hard day for all of us, and I suggest we should get some rest. Would you be so kind to show John and Doctor Barlow to their rooms, Sherlock? Gregory, follow me, please."

"Ah, so we on the first name basis already," the detective remarked in a low voice. "Interesting."

"I heard that, Sherlock," the politician answered without turning. "And it's none of your business, actually. Good night, gentlemen."

Lestrade locked the van, pocketed the keys and hurried to join Mycroft, who had already crossed the bridge and stood on the other side, waiting.

Sherlock smiled and started moving, motioning for John and Stanley to follow. "Well-well-well, looks like Lestrade is about to be offered a new highly prestigious job, then."

During their ride from Chichester John tried to touch his friend quite often, introducing a small portions of revitalising energy into his system. Couple of times Sherlock glanced at him enquiringly, but John managed to distract him with questions about Holmes' family estate, and the detective seemed to allow such diversion. But now, seeing that Sherlock was almost back to normal, the ex-army medic relaxed and switched his attention to the topic about the older Holmes and Lestrade.

"And you think that because..," John prompted, intrigued by Mycroft's actions.

"It's quite simple, John. For Mycroft, using the first name could mean two things: firstly, he does that with his closest people, which is not the case with Lestrade... yet. And secondly, which is more likely, he does that when he wants to bring someone in his so called 'inner circle'. Usually that process includes persuading said someone to change his job for 'a more profitable and satisfying one.' Mycroft is very skilled at this, believe me. Lestrade won't stand a chance against him. Unless..."

"Unless what?" John asked with curiosity. By that time they already crossed the bridge and the courtyard, and were now standing in front of a heavy wooden door, which Sherlock proceeded to pull open.

"Unless I run some interference, of course. It may prove to be quite entertaining," Sherlock's eyes sparkled with the oh-so-familiar to John mischievous glint, and the doctor groaned inwardly. The detective picked up on his friend's disapproval right away. "Relax, John, I'm not going to harm anybody. A simple distraction will suffice."

"Somehow I doubt that it's going to be simple, but I'm not going to stop you, so knock yourself out."

"Thank you for your permission, Doctor Watson," the dark-haired man drawled mockingly. "And if it's settled, let's get back to our accommodation, shall we? My room is on the top floor of the eastern side of the castle. There are guest rooms on each side of it; I suggest for us to settle there. Any objections? Good. Let's go, then."

Sherlock led them trough an intricate maze of corridors and staircases, and five minutes later each of them was opening the door to his room.

"John, you can find an assortment of clothes in the wardrobe, I think they will suit you perfectly. As for you, Stanley – do ring up a maid, she should be able to help you. Oh, and there's an adjacent bathroom in each of our guestrooms, so feel free to use it. Good night and good dreams, John, Stanley. See you tomorrow," with that, Sherlock disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him.

Only now John realised that he was really, bone-weary tired. He went through his usual 'preparing for sleep' routine on autopilot, not paying any attention to his surroundings, and tumbled onto the spacious bed, sighing in relief. Tugging the covers over himself clumsily, the doctor drifted away into sleep the second he stopped moving...

* * *

 _The familiar grassy field stretched out around him, but this time Sherlock found himself sitting in the comfortable recliner in a small rotunda. There even was a coffee table on his right with the steaming cup of black coffee, which made Sherlock chuckle in amusement._

 _"Nice touch," he commented, stretching in his chair and putting his arms behind his head. "To what event I own the pleasure?"_

 _His mentor, already accustomed to Sherlock's way of communication, also proceeded to get straight to the point. "It's time for you to prepare for meeting with the Quiet One. From now on, you must continue you path together. But for that, certain changes should be made. He will reveal himself to you soon, and you must form the connection between the two of you."_

 _"Okay, two questions: why me, and how should I do that?"_

 _"The Quiet One has only recently discovered his gifts, and is still not quite adept at using them, so you must guide him for now."_

 _"It wasn't a hallucination then, was it? Yesterday in the van, when I saw a flash of magenta, it was real?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"But that means…"_

 _"Patience, Curious One. When he reveals himself to you, follow your instincts and don't try to contain yourself. Only then the merging will take place and be complete."_

 _"Not exactly my area of expertise, but I'll try. And may I ask what exactly do you mean by merging?"_

 _"It can't be explained rationally, Curious One. But when the time comes, you'll know what to do…"_

Sherlock snapped awake and barely stopped himself from catapulting out of bed, his whole body taut as string and ready for action. His condition was quite similar to the one he always had while chasing suspects across the streets of London – apart from a strange, but pleasurable tingling sensation spreading through his body.

There was a knock at his door, and Sherlock was up and across the room in instant. Yanking the door open, the detective grabbed a fistful of John's jumper, dragged his friend inside and shut the door.

To his credit, the good doctor didn't even bat an eyelid. "Morning, Sherlock. Guess you know already why I'm here, don't you?"

Not being able to find his voice, the younger man nodded, letting go of his flatmate's jumper and starting to back away to the nearest armchair. His mind was clouded, and he missed the target, opting for the bed instead. John was watching him closely, his dark eyes alight with tenderness and understanding. The back of Sherlock's knees finally hit the edge of the bed, and he sat down. The tingling finally reached his chest, making his heart skip a beat.

"That's right, Sherlock, you need to let yourself go," the ex-army medic whispered. "Now look at me."

Sherlock blinked a few times, and then his eyes settled on John. The blond doctor leaned against the door and closed his eyes, mentally bringing his barriers down and opening himself for Sherlock…

* * *

He couldn't see anything at first, a swirling grey mist obscuring his vision.

'You need to relax, Curious One,' his mentor's voice said in his mind. 'Let yourself feel.'

"Easier said than done," murmured Sherlock and tried to follow the advice. But the mist was still here, and Sherlock couldn't stop thinking, and his body was refusing to obey him, so finally he closed his eyes in defeat. "I can't."

Suddenly there were two hands on his shoulders, and he looked up into his friend's sympathetic eyes. And then John did something completely unexpected – he leaned down and placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"Don't think, Sherlock," John whispered against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. "It doesn't work that way."

"I can't, John," the younger man said brokenly, closing his eyes. "I'm supposed to be guiding you, and I can't even…"

"Shh," John hushed him gently, resting his forehead against Sherlock's, his thumbs sweeping across his friend's collarbones. "I'm here, I've got you. Just look at me."

Sherlock shook his head, his forehead sliding along John's. "No…"

A hand slid under his chin, tilting his head up, and two kisses were placed on his closed eyelids. "Sherlock, do you trust me?"

He nodded, feeling the warmth starting to spread out inside his body. "Always, John."

"Good. Everything's going to be fine. Now, open your eyes."

He obeyed, and John stepped back, letting him go, letting him see. Sherlock stared in confusion, his brain taking a ridiculously long time to realise what exactly he was seeing.

Magenta. The colour was radiating from John's body, making him look ethereal and causing Sherlock's breath to catch in his throat.

And then something seemed to snap inside him, as if a dam was finally broken, and he surged forward, wrapping his arms around John and holding on for dear life. A steady stream of energy coursed through his body, making him dizzy; he couldn't stop shaking, and John was backing them towards the bed, his arms strong and his body solid and warm against Sherlock's. They fell on the bed, and John rolled them deftly, so now they lay on their sides, still hugging each other. It was Sherlock's turn to take the lead, and he placed a tender kiss on top of John's head.

"We need to take the final step, John," he murmured drowsily. "Let me in, let me see you, don't hold anything back. I'm not going to hurt you, don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," the doctor whispered. "I trust you, Sherlock. Welcome home…"

The power surged anew, flowing between them, washing the past away and making them the whole. John was creating a shield around them, and Sherlock, in turn, was binding their minds with some sort of mental thread – very flexible and at the same time very solid. It took all their remaining strength, and when the merging was finally complete, Sherlock faded away first with John following him a few seconds later.

Unseen for the ordinary eye, the shield around them was shading into the electric blue…

* * *

A map was spread out on the table in front of him, and Norton glanced up, meeting his PA's gaze.

"Thank you, Damian. What's the status of our little problem?"

"Eliminated, sir."

"Excellent. That's all for now, take some rest. I'll call you if I need you."

Melford nodded and left the room, carefully closing the door. Norman took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and clearing his mind. It was time to find Sherlock.

His breathing slow and deep, Norton placed his palms on the map and concentrated on the sensations, scanning the map with his hands from top to bottom.

Nothing.

Frowning, he repeated the scan, but the result was the same.

Sherlock Holmes was somewhere in Chichester, Norman Norton was sure about that. Norman should've been able to track his energy signature on that map, but there wasn't any.

And that could mean two things.

First scenario: Sherlock Holmes was dead; but in that case, Norton should've detected the Shade – a final spark of energy before Sherlock's death. He didn't feel it, so Sherlock was alive.

Second scenario: Sherlock had undergone The Transformation, which in rogue translation to the ordinary language meant that he had found his soulmate and merged with that person.

Which, in turn, meant that Norton now had two adversaries instead of one.

Humming in satisfaction, Norman crossed his arms over his chest and formulated his new plan. Find the location of Holmes' family mansion, go there, make himself familiar with the new joined energy signature.

And then simply wait for the perfect moment to deal his final blow.

Norton relaxed into his chair and grinned wickedly. Over the years, he had honed his skill of waiting to perfection.

This was going to be quite entertaining…


	10. Craving You

  


_The surface beneath him was hard and uneven, softened only slightly by a thin woollen blanket – at least it's what it felt like for the tips of his fingers when he touched the material tentatively. He thought for a moment about opening his eyes to see what exactly was going around him, but the sun was warm on his skin and he was so comfortable, that he decided to simply enjoy this blissful moment a little longer._

 _There was a sound of ocean surf somewhere down below – a constant noise of waves breaking on a rocky shore, soothing and relaxing. A cool breeze blew across his skin, and John shivered slightly, attempting to curl up in order to remain warm and comfortable._

 _"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured, his voice filled with awe and delight. "To think that I never had time to appreciate all that… Amazing."_

 _Surprised by his friend's presence, John blinked his eyes open, uncurling and propping himself up on his elbow. They were on the top of the cliff, the detective sitting on the same blanket not far from the doctor, facing away towards the ocean, his legs bent and hugged to his chest._

 _Another dream then, but this time it appeared to be shared._

 _But even considering that this was a dream, Sherlock's words were kind of… strange. For a creature so logical and rational like him, anyway._

 _And John, of course, didn't fail to point it out, although a hint of a smile was clearly heard in his voice. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Sherlock?"_

 _His soulmate turned around to face him, a smile tugging at his lips and his dark curls swept back by the gust of wind. "You always berated me for not paying attention to anything outside my job. I finally decided to change my mind about that, and you're grumbling again. Where's the logic?"_

 _"Blissful moments in life are not ruled by logic, Sherlock," John answered with the smile of his own. "It's just… I'm a little surprised, I guess."_

 _The younger man chuckled. "We have merged recently, remember? No wonder that I'm channelling you now, don't you think?"_

 _John shifted around on the blanket, copying his friend's pose. "Well, finally some indication that my presence is rubbing off on you."_

 _"I'm not dignifying that with a response."_

 _"I'm not expecting you to. Let's just enjoy the moment, shall we?"_

 _They both fell silent, looking into the distance. The ocean was calm now – not a wave, not even a slightest ripple. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was starting to set, colouring the surface of the ocean with gold and red hues._

 _"It's going to be dark soon," Sherlock remarked, moving back so his shoulder rested against John's. "Which makes me wonder…"_

 _"Greetings, Chosen Ones," the voice come from nowhere, making the blond jerk in surprise._

 _The dark-haired man, however, was obviously expecting that. "Ah, a new name. And I guess it's not the last one."_

 _"We will consider that, Curious One," their mentor said after a brief pause, and the two men exchanged glances – was that a mockery in a "higher power's" voice? "Now, however, is the time for you to ask questions."_

 _"Okay, then I have one," John announced without skipping a bit. "Are we going to do the learning thing together from now on?"_

 _"Most of the time. There still going to be some moments that would require separate consultations. But you're allowed to share new information afterwards."_

 _Sherlock frowned. "So why split us up? Why can't it be handled when we are together?"_

 _"Your level of adjustment to your gift differs from the one that Quiet One has, and therefore in some situations your interference may impede his progress."_

 _John felt his friend's body tense beside him and hurried to forestall Sherlock's cutting remark. "Considering the fact that Curious One already has quite a head start, I think it's reasonable."_

 _His soulmate, however, outright refused to take the hint. "That's rubbish. How is it interference if I'm only going to observe him?"_

 _"Due to the fact that you underwent the merging, your mere presence during the training is going to affect the Quiet One energetically on all levels, disrupting his concentration."_

 _"Right, then how long would it take for our difference to balance out?"_

 _"It can be reduced considerably for both of you by creating an energy imprint of each other," the voice paused, and then continued in a much softer tone. "It will also help to overcome the anxiety should you be separated against your will during the next two weeks."_

 _The two men gave each other puzzled looks, and then asked in unison. "The anxiety?"_

 _Their mentor's voice sounded genuinely apologetic now. "We are sorry for not mentioning about a significant side effect of merging earlier, but you will need each other's presence nearby, up to the point of physical craving."_

 _John ducked his head, trying to hide his sudden blush, and Sherlock's eyebrows nearly crawled into his hairline. Always priding himself on being the most rational man in the entire world, the detective managed to keep his voice calm and steady._

 _"Excuse me, but I think you ought to elaborate on that statement," Sherlock said bluntly, causing John to emit a choked, almost hysterical giggle._

 _"We realise that it may cause you certain problems..," the voice began, only to be interrupted by John, who evidently was on the brink of losing it._

 _"Oh, you have no idea how CERTAIN they are going to be," the doctor snorted, and the detective reached out and clamped his hand around his soulmate's wrist, attempting to distract him from going down the path they both had tried to avoid up until now._

 _And distract him Sherlock did, judging by the sudden hitch of breath on John's part, and the fact that the good doctor's body went absolutely still._

 _A moment after that all conversation was impossible as John slowly turned, raised his head and looked straight into his eyes. Grey-blue met dark grey, and the detective found himself drowning, sinking into their warm depths and never wanting to surface again._

 _And then John turned his hand around in Sherlock's loose grasp and sort of slid his palm along Sherlock's, entwining their fingers._

 _A jolt of energy sizzled through the detective's body, setting all his nerve endings on fire, and the world around him faded away in a whirlwind of colours and sensations…_

* * *

Sherlock surfaced from sleep, feeling the feather-light touches of John's fingers on his face. He was lying on his back, a pillow under his head and a duvet tucked around him, so John must've gotten them comfortable during their brief nap. His soulmate was skimming his fingertips gently across his forehead, down his cheek, across his jaw, and then pausing for the moment under his chin only to mirror his movements on the other side of Sherlock's face. John's gentle ministrations left a pleasant feeling in their wake, and the detective allowed the corners of his lips to quirk up into a smile.

A breathy chuckle sounded close to his ear, and John's fingers stilled on his forehead, causing Sherlock to growl slightly and push his head against his friend's hand.

"I take it that you like it, don't you?" the doctor murmured, resuming his caress.

The detective hummed, not bothering with expressing his contentment verbally. But his soulmate evidently wanted to hear it, so the petting stopped once again.

Sherlock huffed in irritation and opened his eyes, shooting John a pointed look; but the doctor just raised his eyebrows in enquiry and continued to refuse getting with the programme. The staring contest lasted nearly a minute, ending with the younger man rolling his eyes in exasperation and reluctantly providing an answer.

"Tingly," he muttered and nudged John's hand again.

"I'm sorry but I didn't quite catch that," the older man replied, still annoyingly refusing to take the hint and move his hand.

Sherlock huffed again. "You're just going to make me say that, aren't you? Okay, fine. I get a tingling feeling all over my body when you touch me, regardless of WHERE exactly you touch me. Happy now?"

John's hand moved at last, and Sherlock started to relax only to be jolted into awareness by his soulmate's next question.

"What sort of tingly? Good, bad, something else?" the blond enquired, moving his hand down onto his partner's shoulder and starting to massage it, digging his fingers into muscles lightly.

"You think I would've allowed it if it was anything but pleasant?" Sherlock countered with the question, closing his eyes and drifting out again.

"I guess not," John worked his fingers down his friend's arm and took his hand, paying attention to each one of Sherlock's slender digits. The detective hummed again and turned on his side, bringing his other hand in the vicinity of John's skilful fingers. John grinned. "What me to do you all over?"

The younger man opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by light knocking on the door. John let go of his hand and moved away, and Sherlock discovered that he was missing his soulmate being close already.

"Come in!" he called out, pushing up into a sitting position and rearranging the duvet so it was wrapped around his shoulders.

The door opened slowly, and Stanley Barlow poked his head in. "Good morning, Sherlock, John. I hope I'm not intruding..."

"No, Stanley, not at all," John got up from the bed and went around to greet the therapist. "I was just planning to give Sherlock a backrub, but that can wait. Are Mycroft and Gregory up already?"

"Yes, I saw them both going into what I assume is Mr. Holmes' study," Barlow allowed John to escort him to the nearest chair and sat down.

"Was it on the second floor near the tower?" Sherlock enquired, watching the two doctor's interactions with avid curiosity.

"On the second floor – yes, but I'm not sure about the tower. Somewhere in the middle, more likely."

"Then it's certainly the library," the younger man said confidently, his eyes locked onto his friend's face which was displaying a noticeable signs of distress. "John, are you all right?"

"A bit itchy," the blond admitted, suppressing a strong desire to scratch his arm. "But it's already fading, so don't worry."

"Good. How about breakfast, then?" Sherlock smiled at him sympathetically. "Because I'm sure Mycroft will wish to see us quite soon."

"Sounds wonderful, Sherlock. Lead the way," John answered, and the three men left the room...

* * *

"Quite an impressive mansion you have here, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade remarked, coming over to a window to take a peak outside.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," the politician gave an acknowledging nod. "It is quite convenient to have such a place in circumstances like this."

"I bet it is. But you didn't call me here only to enjoy the view, did you?"

"Quite a direct approach, Gregory, but no. I have a proposition for you."

The policeman's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm not sure we know each other well enough for this type of conversation, Mr. Holmes."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched up into a ghost of a smile. "Very well, Gregory. You can call me Mycroft, by the way. And it's an offer of employment."

The DI turned away from the window, locking his gaze with Mycroft, and the politician guessed his answer right away. "I'm deeply honoured by your attention to my humble person, but I must decline, I'm afraid."

Even if the older Holmes was disappointed by his answer, Gregory Lestrade couldn't see any indication of that. "It's your choice, Gregory, and I'm not going to trouble you with it any longer. But should you reconsider, I want you to know that my offer still stands."

"Thank you, Mycroft, and I promise to think about it," a warm smile lit up Lestrade's face. "Now, you were saying something about the plan yesterday…"

Right at that moment a door to the library opened and Sherlock walked in, followed by John and Barlow.

"Ah, well, about that… Gentlemen, please, take a seat. Sherlock, how are you feeling?" Mycroft moved towards his sibling, and Sherlock flinched slightly. John, noticing that, took a step forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The older Holmes stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"He's okay, Mycroft, don't worry," John reassured, towing Sherlock along in the direction of a chair and parking him there successfully. "Please continue."

A slight frown creased Mycroft's forehead for a second, but he let the subject drop, focusing his attention back on the subject. "Gentlemen, I think you are all aware of our situation, so it's time for us to decide on a course of action we are going to take. Doctor Barlow, what's your opinion on Sherlock's condition?"

The sandy-haired doctor jerked a little, not expecting to be questioned, and cast a fleeting glance at his patient. "Well, his recovery seems to be going quite efficiently, no relapses so far, so I can safely say that he is perfectly ready to return to a normal life."

The older Holmes reached out for the manila folder on the nearest table and flipped it open. "Normal, you say? I can assure you that my brother's life is as far from normal as it possible for a human to have, Doctor Barlow."

John's jaw tightened. "Mycroft, I don't think now's the perfect time to discuss this."

"Oh, but I beg to differ, Doctor Watson," the politician leafed through the pages in the folder. "According to the information in this file, Sherlock's brain now operates on a much wider capacity than it did before the clinical death. More than that, the scans are clearly showing that certain parts of his brain have been activated – the parts that are usually associated with the so-called supernatural abilities."

"Mycroft," the blond hissed. "Stop it! He already has enough on his plate; he can't deal with that right now."

A hand slid up his arm, fisting into the fabric of his shirt, and Sherlock tugged him closer, forcing him to take a seat on the arm of the chair. After that the younger man clamped his hand on John's thigh and raised his chin defiantly.

"And your point is, Mycroft?" the detective all but growled, ignoring his soulmate's feeble attempts to wriggle free.

Mycroft's cold blue eyes assessed his irritated sibling, and his lips twitched. "No need to be so possessive, brother dear, I'm not going to subject you or John to any kind of tests. And besides, I'm certainly not the one you should be afraid of."

Sherlock's grip tightened a bit more, and John yelped in pain, wrestling the punishing hand off his leg.

"Watch it, Sherlock!" the doctor rasped, rubbing his leg vigorously. His pained voice seemed to snap the detective out of his haze, and a guilty expression appeared on his face.

"Oh God, John, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean…" Sherlock reached a trembling hand to touch his soulmate, but John involuntarily pushed his hand away.

The younger man gasped and tried to shrink deeper into the chair, his fearful eyes fixed on his friend's face. The blond cursed under his breath and turned to the older Holmes.

"Mycroft, can we postpone this conversation? I really need to calm Sherlock down, so I would appreciate everyone leaving right now."

The politician nodded and ushered Lestrade and Barlow out of the room, closing the door carefully and leading his guests away.

Meanwhile John looked around the room and spotted a leather sofa in the far corner.

"Well, Sherlock, it's only you and me now," he said gently and reached out to take his soulmate's hand. "Come on."

The dark-haired man looked at him in confusion, but still allowed to be pulled up and then obediently followed his friend to the sofa. John took a position at the corner of the sofa and motioned for Sherlock to lie down, which the younger man did without a word, using John's thigh as a pillow.

"It's okay, Sherlock," the doctor whispered soothingly, running a hand through the dark curls. "Everything's fine, you're safe now. Just let it go, mate. Just let everything go."

For a moment nothing happened, and then Sherlock took a shuddering breath, turned his head, pressing his face into John's thigh, and his body started to shake…

John continued to simply stroke his friend's head, a sad and tender expression gracing his face. Because right now, right at that moment, Sherlock Holmes finally set his foot on the road of becoming not only a great, but a good man as well...

* * *

"Excuse me, Sir, can I help you?" Sally Donovan called out, seeing a stranger walking purposely to Lestrade's office.

The men stopped and turned to her, a friendly expression on his face. "Actually I think you do," he said amiably, strolling towards her with his hand extended in greeting. "My name is Thomas Sanderson, and I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sally eyed the strange man suspiciously, but still stretched out her hand and even allowed Thomas to kiss it. "Can I ask why?"

Sanderson glanced around quickly and leaned closer to her. "I have sensitive information about the Abbot case. And I think that the Detective Inspector would be very interested to hear it."

Sally cringed inwardly. Another crazy lunatic pretending to be the key figure in a totally lost case. "I'm sorry, Sir, but Detective Inspector Lestrade is unavailable at the moment. You can leave him a note, if you want."

The strange man glanced towards Lestrade's office, utterly disappointed. "That's a pity; I was really hoping to see him. Can I leave you my card? It's really important, you now."

"I don't doubt that, Sir", Sally's mobile chirped on her desk, and she turned away to get it, but it stopped ringing almost immediately. Shrugging her shoulders, she turned again just in time to see Sanderson walking into her boss' office. "Excuse me, but what the hell you think you're doing?"

Startled by her voice, Thomas jerked his hand away from Lestrade's desk and looked at her guiltily. "I'm sorry, but I just couldn't resist. All that stuff… Investigations, murders, secrets… It's fascinating, isn't it?"

"For outsiders like you – maybe, Mr. Sanderson. For all of us, who work here – not anymore, I'm afraid. Anyway, you were saying something about leaving your card?"

"Oh, right," Thomas reached into his pocket, dug out the card and placed it on Lestrade's desk. "Here it is. And I'm already leaving, so don't you worry, Sergeant Donovan."

She frowned. "You know my name? How?"

"Oh, it's simple. I read the papers, you know. Have a nice day, Sergeant."

He smiled slightly and walked away, leaving her staring after him in bewilderment. Shaking her head, she closed the door to the DI's office and returned to her desk, her mind already focused on her paperwork.

Thomas Sanderson walked out of Scotland Yard, pulling his leather gloves on, and in the next moment his face changed drastically. Gone was a funny, pathetic man – a cold, hard expression appeared on his features, and Norman Norton was back again, his thin lips curving in a condescending sneer.

A ghost of Lestrade's vital energy signature was still clinging to the tips of his fingers, and Norton balled his hands into fists, trapping the sensation against his palm. He was absolutely sure that the DI was still somewhere near Sherlock, and therefore, could be used as a human beacon in a process of finding the actual location of Holmes' family hideout.

The driver was already holding the rear door of the black Jaguar open for him, and Norman slid onto the seat in one smooth motion.

"Home, Gary. And contact Mr. Melford, please. Tell him I need everything to be ready. We are leaving straight away…"

  



	11. A Spider's Web

Sherlock cried himself to sleep in a matter of five minutes, and John had no other choice than to stay put and to continue stroking his soulmate's hair. Sherlock's head still rested on John's lap, and his right hand was curled around John's right knee, safely anchoring the doctor in place.

The newly formed connection between them was obviously becoming quite strong, because the older man found himself gradually succumbing to slumber as well, but not before he had draped an arm across the detective's body and tried to tug his friend even closer. Sherlock gave a quiet murmur of protest and proceeded to dislodge John's arm by turning onto his right side, and then practically nuzzled his face into his friend's tummy. It threw John for a moment, because he was still getting used to that unexpected 'touchy-feely' side of Sherlock; and besides, even though he knew that they needed to be as close to each other as possible during the next two weeks, he seriously doubted that their urge to wrap themselves around each other would be greatly appreciated by other members of their small company. Having considered all this, the blond man took hold of his friend's shoulders and carefully pushed him away, only to have said friend emit a low growl and lock his arms around him in a clear gesture of possessiveness.

This made John's position even more compromised. He tried to wriggle free, but his attempt was again thwarted by Sherlock, whose arms snaked up and around the doctor's shoulders. Right after that the sleeping detective managed to sort of pull himself up and drape the upper part of his body across John's.

And, to make things even worse, Mycroft Holmes chose that exact moment to return to the library.

John promptly stopped his attempts to wrestle his personal octopus off and froze, dreading the words that undoubtedly were going to be directed at him in the next moment. The politician, however, just raised his eyebrows for the moment and, crossing the room in a few unhurried strides, sat down into the leather armchair near the ornate wooden coffee table.

The younger man shivered, obviously reacting at his brother's arrival, so the doctor started rubbing his friend's back, trying to warm him up. Sherlock murmured something unintelligible and raised his head, blinking at John sleepily.

"What...," his eyes were sill unfocussed and his voice was hoarse, so John smiled at him warmly.

"Mycroft is here," the doctor whispered, and the detective tensed for a moment, then twisted out of his arms and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. After that he slipped his arm around John's shoulders, hugging him closer, and looked at his brother, tilting his head slightly.

"Good to have you with us, Sherlock," Mycroft commented, observing both of them with amusement. "Let's return to our previous conversation. So, considering the information I'm already aware of, is there anything else you inclined to share?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Depends on what you are willing to hear, Mycroft."

"As I was already saying, you don't need to protect yourself from me, dear brother. All I want is to be sure that you are able to defend yourself from Norton. Am I right in my assumption that John is part of your – how shall I phrase it? – defence system now?"

The younger Holmes smirked. "You have a talent for stating the obvious, Mycroft, but yes, you are right. Anything else?"

"Have you considered that John's involvement means that he has become a threat to Norton as well?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that. What's your point?"

"There's no need to be so hostile, Sherlock. I'm only making sure that you have a complete grasp of the situation."

The two brother's interaction seemed to be transforming into a battle of wits again, and John tuned it out, concentrating instead on a strange sensation of numbness spreading in the right half of his body. In the first few moments he failed to pinpoint the source of it, so he made an attempt to deepen his concentration by closing his eyes and relaxing his body completely.

A moment later he felt it – tendrils of cold emanating from Sherlock and seeping into him, numbing his body and weakening him with every passing second. He needed to stop it, and he heeded to stop it now, before he was going to be faced with the real possibility of going into a mild hypothermic shock. There was only one way to do it, and John mentally cranked up his body heat and visualised himself emitting heat waves – one after another, splashing onto Sherlock's cold skin, enveloping him and warming him up. The trick seemed to be working, because a minute later the detective's arm tugged him even closer, and the younger man arched his back slightly, grabbing the doctor's arm and guiding it into a narrow space between his body and the back of the sofa. Getting the hint, John moved his arm in a position obviously desired by Sherlock, and curled his fingers into the younger man's side. At the same moment the ex-army medic mentally thickened the protective shield around them, and Sherlock immediately and fully relaxed into him, a quiet sigh of relief escaping the younger man's lips.

This little episode obviously hadn't gone unnoticed by Mycroft, and a ghost of a smile tugged at the older Holmes' lips. "Well, dear brother, it seems like I chose the wrong time to bother you with all those details. I should have anticipated your need to spend more time with your companion, especially right now. And there's no need for you to look so surprised – you know perfectly well that the power of observation is one of our family talents. So, how long do you need to sort everything out?"

Sherlock looked quite pleased with his brother's suggestion, and immediately put forward his demands. "Three days at least, Mycroft. The process is still unfinished, and we would really appreciate some solitude right now."

"You can count on it," the politician gave a brief nod. "Anything else?"

"Norman Norton – I would be very grateful if you'd brief Lestrade and Barlow on him. I will tell John everything I know about Norton myself. Agreed, Mycroft?"

"Agreed."

"Good," Sherlock disentangled himself from his soulmate and stood up from the sofa in one swift move. "As for now, we would like to retire to our room. Come, John, we have much to do."

The older Holmes again acknowledged his younger sibling's words with a nod, and the detective half-turned back, extending his hand to John. The doctor accepted it and was tugged onto his feet and towed along towards the door, managing to give a small wave to Mycroft just before the library door closed behind him. Not slowing his steps, Sherlock dragged his soulmate to the already familiar room, pushed him inside and all but slammed the door shut, eyeing the doctor with obvious excitement.

"So, John," the tall man purred, his voice deep and husky. "What do you think about that imprint they told us about? Care to try, my dear guardian?"

* * *

After the incident in the library Mycroft led Barlow and Lestrade into a large sitting room on the second floor and soon excused himself, saying that he should take care of some important matters. After his departure the two men in silent agreement moved to the fireplace and sat in the chairs opposite each other. A few moments were spent by each one in contemplating his vis-à-vis, and then the DI broke the silence first.

"We haven't been properly introduced before, I believe. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

The sandy-haired man inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "Pleasure to meet you, Detective Inspector. I'm Doctor Stanley Barlow, Sherlock's physician at the moment. It's sort of a field assignment for me; usually I work at a small private clinic in one of London outskirts."

"Gregory, please," Lestrade smiled. "I guess it was Mycroft Holmes who employed you for that field trip?"

"Correct. Sherlock's recovery is still in progress, so I'm glad that I can keep an eye on him. And may I ask about your involvement in all this?"

"Of course. I can't say that it was voluntary, though – I had been kidnapped and forced to call John on his phone with a gun held at my temple... I was sure they were going to kill me after that, but Sherlock somehow managed to save the day, so here I am."

"Yes, I heard that he used one of his newly acquired abilities… Fascinating, isn't it?"

"I guess so, John had mentioned about it. But frankly, it's not that much a surprise for me. It seems logical that Sherlock has this kind of ability now."

Barlow's green eyes sparkled with interest. "Really? How so?"

The DI tilted his head and smiled slightly. "Sherlock always has been extraordinary. He completely disregards the rules sometimes, and manages to get in trouble quite often, but apart from that, he's a proper genius. But don't tell him I told you that – the man already has an ego large enough to fill his own flat. Anyway, all things considered, I'm not at the least surprised that it turned out that way."

"I think I've heard about him before – there were articles in some newspapers… He's a private detective, isn't he?"

"A consulting detective. The only one in the world, as he likes to say."

"And he works with the police?"

"Only when the cases are interesting. He's free-lancing, so he always has many options. He can help us, he can take a private assignment, or he can be employed by his own brother – although the latter happens very rarely. Don't ask me why, though, I'm not at liberty to disclose Sherlock's family secrets. Anyway, he's the best at what he does, and that's all that matters to me."

Barlow was quiet for a few moments, absorbing the information, and when he spoke again, he sounded really impressed. "That's… quite a statement, Gregory. To tell the truth, I had an impression that he's… special… right from the moment I saw him for the first time. He's the one of the few patients who survived the Lazarus Syndrome, and, more than that, he even managed to take a giant leap in improving his brain, literally… That's… I mean, it's the first time I had…"

His monologue was interrupted by Mycroft, who managed to slip into the room unnoticed at some point, and now was clearing his throat politely. Both men turned to look at him, startled by his unexpected appearance, and he gave an apologetic smile in return.

"Sorry gentlemen, I didn't mean to… sneak up on you, but I have a very important information to give you," the older Holmes crossed the room and sat down in an armchair near the pair, which made them turn their chairs slightly, so they were now facing him. "First of all, I need to ask you not to seek John and Sherlock's company for at least three days. They are having a hard time adapting to their new abilities, so burdening them further really is unnecessary. Are we clear on that?"

"Absolutely," both men answered in unison, and then Lestrade decided to ask a question, which had plagued him since the conversation in the van.

"I guess the second topic is the mysterious Norman Norton, then. So what should we know about him?"

"Excellent question, my dear Inspector," there was another folder in the politician's hands, a dark blue leather one, and he opened it on his lap, consulting with the materials inside. "I think I shall start at the beginning in order to give you a brief impression about Norman Norton's life up till now. Any objections?"

Both men shook their heads negatively.

"Good. So, Norman Seymour Norton, 40 years old, Caucasian male, born in Norwich. His father, Jeffrey Norton Junior, was a brilliant mathematician with a glittering career in the Secret Service, and his mother, Edwina Tate-Norton, was a no less talented linguist with two PhDs and a professorship in Cambridge. They died in a car crash five years ago, although circumstances of that incident are still remaining unclear. Norton has a brother and a sister, but the relationship between the siblings is very strained. Norton has a degree in economics, and began his financial career in one of the minor banks of London, but wasn't very successful until the age of 35. At that age he had been caught in an avalanche but was found in time and revived from clinical death. Soon after that a sequence of mysterious events changed his life quite drastically. From the position of a simple clerk he quickly rose to the position of a bank's owner, and then, in addition to being in the banking business, he founded "Norton Incorporated" – now a very powerful and dangerous organisation, which makes profit on illegal operations world-wide."

"As I already said, he sounds like another Moriarty," Lestrade remarked thoughtfully.

"He could have been, if not for one important difference, Gregory. Norman Norton is a psychic with incredible suggestive powers."

For five minutes, the silence in the room was almost palpable. Lestrade's face was displaying total disbelief, and Barlow looked as if he desperately tried to remember something vitally important, but it was refusing to come to him. Mycroft closed his folder and observed both men closely, then gracefully rose from his armchair.

"I know that this information is hard to accept right away, so I'm going to give you some time to do it. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to find me and ask. Have a nice day," with that he strolled out of the room, leaving two completely shell-shocked men staring after him...

* * *

"Are you sure that we are doing it properly, Sherlock?"

There was a hint of uncertainty in his soulmate's voice, and the younger man sighed in frustration. Process interrupted once again. Three times in a row for the last ten minutes. That's got to be a record.

"I know, I know, I should stop worrying. But are you really timing this, Sherlock? You said ten minutes – is it really…"

The detective frowned. "I didn't actually say anything, John. I only thought about it. So how..," there was a long pause, and then Sherlock opened his eyes wide, struck by a sudden realisation. "Oh. Brilliant."

The doctor's eyes flew open. "WHAT?"

Sherlock smirked. ' _You're telepathic, John. Quite interesting.'_

Hearing his soulmate's amused voice in his own head was unsettling. "No, it bloody isn't, Sherlock! Stay out of my head, please!"

Sherlock's grin widened. _'I'm not trying to get in your head, my dear Quiet One. It's you who is reading my mind… Unintentionally, I might add, judging by your reaction.'_

The doctor practically fumed at that. "I'm reading your mind only because you're thinking at me! So stop it!"

This time the detective chuckled. _'I wasn't thinking AT YOU, I was thinking in general. How am I supposed to stop it, pray tell? Become brain-dead?'_

John looked absolutely petrified by that idea. "God, no! It just… It's bloody confusing, you know…"

Sherlock nodded in understanding. _'I can imagine. But think about the advantage it gives us. You have to admit, the possibilities are astonishing.'_

His friend's reasoning was infallible, as always, and John had no other choice but to agree. "You are right; it may come in handy in some situations."

The tall man clapped his hands together. _'Wonderful! But there's one thing I'm wondering about: does this work both ways, or only from me to you? Let's test it! Come on, think of something!'_

The ex-army medic nodded and thought about how brilliant his companion was, and then raised his eyebrows in enquiry. A shadow of disappointment crossed Sherlock's face.

' _Nope, looks like it's a one-way road. That's a pity. But maybe I'm just supposed to 'come online' a little later?'_

"I'm sure of it, Sherlock," John said softly, trying to reassure his soulmate. "You probably should simply wait a little. Now, you were saying something about the imprint? How exactly does it work?"

The younger man's face instantly lit up like a Christmas tree. _'Oh, that's absolutely astonishing, John! You're going to love this...'_

* * *

Melford was waiting for his boss at the entrance of Norton's private residence and opened the door of the Jaguar for Norman a second after the car came to a stop.

"Thank you, Damian. Is everything ready?" Norton stepped out of the vehicle, keeping his hands closed into fists, and immediately started walking towards the front door.

"Yes, Mister Norton. Your plane is ready, and the map is on your table," his PA reported, following him into the building.

"Good. I need to spend some time alone in my study and after that we are possibly going to depart straight away. I trust you have taken care of our accommodations in Chichester?"

"The VIP suite is already booked."

"Perfect," Norton stopped briefly at the door of his study. "Get my suitcase ready; we'll probably need to spend two or three days there."

Melford nodded and left without delay while Norman entered the room, tugging his gloves off and flexing his fingers. It was time to locate Sherlock's hideout using Lestrade's signature, and Norton lowered himself into a chair in front of his worktable. Closing his eyes, he placed his palms on the map, fingers splayed, then tuned his energy perception to the desired frequency and mentally sent forth a detecting power surge. From his previous experiences he already knew that for the receiving side such a surge could be quite unpleasant, but for Norton it was just collateral damage anyway.

The responding burst of energy came almost instantly, and a fluctuating red dot appeared on Norton's mental representation of the actual map on the table. A semblance of smile touched his lips and, opening his eyes, he pressed a button on the intercom.

"Mister Melford, I'd like you to meet me at the airfield. We are leaving immediately. The firefly is firmly stuck to a spider's web, and I think you're fully aware of what it means exactly..."

* * *

Lestrade shook his head slightly. "Well, truth be told, I'm not exactly surprised by all that. As I had mentioned earlier, Sherlock is an extraordinary man. It's no wonder that his adversary turned out to be psychic."

Barlow, still looking slightly dazed, emitted a nervous chuckle. "You certainly have impressive self-control, Gregory."

The DI grinned. "You should try being a police inspector. Although I suppose that being a doctor requires it too, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're right, but still... My God, what happened? Are you alright?"

Lestrade's face suddenly creased in pain, and he doubled over, squeezing his head with his hands.

"No," he choked out. "Head... Hurts like hell... Ah!"

A new wave of pain brought Lestrade onto his knees, and he cried out, tears streaming down his face. It was getting worse with each second, and Stanley launched himself in Lestrade's direction, grabbing the distraught man and trying to hold him still in order to assess his condition. The task was very difficult, considering that the police inspector's body abruptly began to seize, and Barlow watched in horror as Lestrade's eyes slid closed and blood started trickling from his nose.

"Get... John," the DI croaked, and after that his body went limp in Stanley's arms.

Terrified, the physician grabbed a pillow from the nearest chair, lifted Gregory's head, slid a pillow under it and left the room in a panicked run...

* * *

Sherlock's voice was whispering in John's head, calming him down, urging him to relax and simply go with the flow. It was obviously starting to work, because John felt as if his body was rapidly losing weight, becoming sort of... floaty and fuzzy. He let Sherlock lead them, following his soulmate deeper and deeper, but still realising that it was Sherlock's mind they were delving into. It made him want to savour every single moment of it, and he felt the warmth of Sherlock's gratitude flow into him, when the younger man sensed the reverence with which his mind had been regarded.

They were still descending when he suddenly had a feeling of something nagging at his mind and trying to pull him back to reality. He tried to shake it off, but that 'something' turned out to be a quite insistent one.

' _I had noticed it too, John. Something's not right, and we need to get back right now. Don't worry, we can continue later,'_ Sherlock's voice said in his mind, and a second later the ex-army doctor opened his eyes, instantly coming in contact with Barlow's panicked ones.

"It's Lestrade, John," Stanley blurted out in a rush. "He asked to get you... It's bad, John, very bad..."

An image of Lestrade lying unconscious on the floor flashed into John's mind, and he jumped to his feet. "Where is he?"

"In the sitting room on the second floor."

The doctor turned back to his soulmate. "Sherlock, I think I may need your help."

The dark-haired man nodded. "Of course, John. Stanley, lead the way."

They sped through the corridors and burst into the room, halting into a stop at the sight before them. A second later John was already moving forward and dropping down beside the DI, and Sherlock was turning to look at Barlow, his face an unreadable mask.

"Stanley, you need to leave the room," the detective voice was quiet but firm. "Make sure that we're not disturbed. And whatever happens, don't enter this room until I personally allow you to. Is that clear?"

Barlow nodded, and Sherlock immediately pushed him out of the room and closed the door...


	12. Collateral Damage

When Sherlock turned around, John had already leaned closer to Lestrade, preparing to lower his shield in order to assess the DI's condition fully.

It wasn't the best of ideas, especially right now, so the detective did the only logical thing he could think of at the moment – he screamed his disapproval at his soulmate.

Mentally.

Judging by the way the ex-army doctor fell sideways, clutching his head with both hands, Sherlock's message definitely has been received.

"Gees, Sherlock!" John breathed out when his head finally stopped ringing. "We should really work on your social skills. You don't need to YELL something when you're thinking at me. Telepathy doesn't work like normal speech, if you haven't figured it out yet. More than that, how the hell did you manage that?"

This time, Sherlock's thoughts sounded like whispers in his head. _'Manage what?'_

"Screaming. I had no idea that thoughts can actually be so loud!"

' _I simply tried to warn you. It's not safe to lower your shields. Lestrade's condition is obviously the result of Norton's attack, and that means he can strike again.'_

"But we need to help him, Sherlock!" John said, his voice full of worry and despair.

' _Of course we do. And we will,'_ the younger man smiled slightly. _'The answer to your next question is quite simple: you just need to extend your shield and protect all three of us.'_

"Then you better come here – the room is too big for me to extend the shield to where are you standing now," John calmed down, reassured by Sherlock's unruffled expression. "Oh, and another thing: are you going to be so lazy to resort to thinking at me all the time?"

The younger man smirked, crossed the room in a few long strides and effortlessly dropped onto his knees, mirroring his soulmate's position. "Why, does it bother you?"

"A little. I guess I'm not used to it yet," the blond doctor admitted, closing his eyes. "Now hush, I need to concentrate."

"Yes, my dear Quiet One," Sherlock murmured, watching in fascination as their shield shuddered, sparkled and started to spread outwards slowly, encompassing the DI's motionless body.

As the shield was gradually enveloping him, Lestrade shivered and a quiet moan escaped his lips; but other than that, there was no indication of him regaining consciousness or acknowledging the whole situation.

A moment later, the shield stopped moving and John opened his eyes while exhaling slowly, and then turned his head to look at his soulmate.

"Any ideas as to what we should do now, Sherlock?" the ex-army doctor asked, his eyes flickering briefly to look at Lestrade.

"Only one, John," Sherlock reached out, tugging at his companion's sleeve. "Come closer."

"What for?" the blond doctor asked in confusion, but obeyed anyway, and Sherlock's arms slid around him. "Um, Sherlock…"

"Shh, John," the thin genius lowered his head on his friend's shoulder. "We need to consult our mentor. Just relax and open your mind, I'm going to take us there."

"Oh… Okay," John closed his eyes and hugged Sherlock back, resting his head against his soulmate's. "How…"

"Breathe with me, John, and I'll guide you," Sherlock whispered, turning his head so his lips were closer to John's ear. "Take a deep breath… hold it… exhale… Relax… lean on me… I've got you… I'm not letting go… Breathe in… Hold it… Breathe out… Follow my voice… Only my voice…"

Enchanted by that rich, velvety, deep voice, John relaxed into Sherlock's embrace and tuned the rest of the world out…

* * *

 _John opened his eyes to find the three of them on a rocky plateau. The sky was overcast with storm clouds and the blond man could clearly see flashes of lightning in the distance, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder._

 _A chilling gust of wind blew across the cheerless landscape, making John shiver in Sherlock's embrace. The younger man inhaled sharply and tightened his arms around his soulmate in a futile attempt to share his body heat and thus keep the other warm._

" _Sherlock," John said quietly. "As much as I want to enjoy this moment, I think we should concentrate on the task at hand."_

 _The thin genius hummed and slowly pulled away, making John regret his words as the wind now attempted to freeze him to death.  
_

" _We are sorry for about the unsuitable place, Chosen Ones," the voice of their mentor was barely heard over the rumbling thunder and the howling wind. "Dark powers are at play, and the universal balance is affected."_

 _John blinked in confusion, still baffled by the manner in which their mentor chose to express himself. "Um... I'm sorry, but..."_

 _Sherlock cut him short, getting straight to the point. "Yes, we know, but we would appreciate if you could give us some advice on handling the after-effects obviously caused by such power plays."_

 _There was silence and then a flash of light which blinded both of them for a moment. When their vision cleared, both men found themselves in a cave illuminated by a dozen torches, with Lestrade lying on some sort of a dais in front of them._

" _That's better," John muttered under his breath. "So what are we supposed to do now?"_

" _You're a healer, Quiet One. You should delve into your friend's mind and free him from fetters placed by your enemy."_

" _Me? Why me? I have no bloody idea how to do that; you should've picked Sherlock instead! He's the smarter one," John protested, trying to edge away._

 _His movement was immediately thwarted by Sherlock, who turned and almost slapped his palms over the doctor's temples._

" _Fear not, Quiet One. The Curious One will guide you in your journey," the voice consoled. "We will give you directions through him. Just clear your mind and follow his voice."_

 _The younger man carefully nudged his soulmate towards the DI. "Don't worry, John, I'll get you through this as smoothly as possible."_

" _Is it you speaking, or..," John couldn't help asking._

" _It's me still, but it won't last too long. I need to allow our mentor to take full control," the younger man said softly, his fingertips rubbing John's temples in small circles from behind.  
_

 _John turned around, dislodging Sherlock's hands, then looked into the grey-blue eyes searchingly. "Are you sure you want to do this? Because if you don't, I'm sure we can find another way..."_

 _Sherlock shook his head, his lips curving into a ghost of a sad smile. "There's no other way, John. You won't be able to handle this alone. And everything is going to be fine, trust me."_

 _The blond doctor held his friend's gaze a moment longer, then gave a hesitant nod. "Okay, I'm ready."_

" _Good," Sherlock nodded in return, took a deep breath and closed his eyes._

 _A moment later his eyelids fluttered, then opened wide, and John gasped in surprise. Sherlock's face become an unreadable mask, devoid of any expression and actually looking much younger than it did the previous moment. But his eyes... They looked impossibly deep, bottomless, and shone with world-encompassing wisdom and understanding. Their soulful gaze held John captive, unable to move, and the blond doctor felt a shiver run down his spine._

 _The entity possessing Sherlock's body reached out and placed its hands on John's shoulders, carefully turning him around. "Look closely at the one you call Greg Lestrade, Quiet One. Look into his mind. Do you see the web that's trapped him?"_

 _Sherlock's voice was deep and calming, washing over John and seemingly heightening his perceptions, because when the doctor glanced at the police inspector, he could clearly see a bundle of thin purple threads covering Greg's head and even several of them that were buried deep in the brain tissue – although it was a little disturbing to see right through Lestrade's skull._

" _Okay, I see it," John choked out, shaken deeply by the view. "What should I do?"_

" _You need to remove those threads one after another – first the ones on the outside, and then the ones on the inside."_

" _But... How?" the doctor stammered, already starting to understand how exactly he should do this, but hoping against hope that he was wrong._

" _Look at your hands, Quiet One," Sherlock advised gently, and John shifted his gaze downward, seeing the tips of his finders starting to glow. "You need to burn them."_

" _No!" the doctor exclaimed, horrified. "No, I can't! It will kill him!"_

" _It won't, and there's no other way, Quiet One," Sherlock's voice became cold and hard. "If you do this, you'll save him, if you don't – he'll die."_

" _Is it going to hurt? Will he be able to feel it?" John's resolve started to crumble._

" _Unfortunately, yes. But only while you burn the threads inside his brain. It's going to be mere seconds, we can promise that," Sherlock said firmly, his hands tightening on John's shoulders. "There's no other way, Quiet One, you'll have to do this."_

" _I understand," the doctor's voice sounded lifeless and hollow. "Just give me a moment."_

 _Warm breath ruffled his hair as Sherlock leaned in, resting his forehead against the back of John's head. "Take your time, John. I know it pains you to know that you're going to hurt him, but..."_

" _Sherlock?" John asked, incredulous. "Is that you?"_

" _Yes, it's me, courtesy of our generous mentor. He wishes no harm and only tries to help," Sherlock murmured, starting to knead John's tense shoulders._

" _Yes, by making me hurt Greg in the process," the doctor said bitterly. "Yes, I know, we have no choice, but..."_

" _Would you like us to make you forget about all of that when it is finished?" the mentor was back in charge. "We can do the same for the Curious One and your friend too, if you want."_

" _Can you really do that?" John shrugged Sherlock's hands off and whirled around to face his possessed soulmate._

 _The dark-haired man nodded. "Certainly."_

" _Okay then, do your thing. I'm ready," John turned away and stood waiting._

" _Your wish is our command," Sherlock said softly, and the next moment his fingers were pressed to John's temples._

 _Time sped up after that, and John's mind briefly registered the sensation of unbearable heat emanating from his fingertips, Lestrade screaming and writhing in pain as the threads were practically evaporated one by one, Sherlock's hands trembling against his head when the DI finally stilled, and then blissful darkness swallowed him mercifully..._

* * *

Sherlock slowly regained consciousness, finding himself curled up on the floor with John in his arms. The good doctor was also in a foetal position, his arms locked over Sherlock's. There was a gap in the younger man's memory – he could clearly remember following Stanley Barlow into this room, then pushing the physician out and basically telling him to guard the door, then getting near Lestrade in order to help him – and after that absolutely nothing.

Lestrade...

Cautiously raising his head, the detective glanced around and immediately zeroed in on the DI's form barely a yard away from them. Greg was unconscious, but his face was no longer scrunched up in pain, and he even had managed to curl up, too, with his hands tucked under his head, making him look defenceless and somewhat younger. A small smile tugged at the corners of the dark-haired man's lips and, lowering his head again, he tucked his nose into the back of John's neck and inhaled deeply.

The doctor stirred and reached up with his left hand, placing it on his soulmate's head and combing his fingers through the silky curls. The detective sighed deeply in pleasure and moved his head slightly, rubbing against the petting hand.

"God, I really love it when you're like this," John murmured, caressing his soulmate's head lazily.

"I seem to remember that you used to complain quite often about me not giving a damn about your personal space. Quite a progress there, I might say," Sherlock's breath tickled the back of John's neck, resulting in a wave of goosebumps spreading over the doctor's entire body.

"Well, I wasn't your soulmate then," John pointed out, revelling in the sensation of Sherlock's hair curled around his fingers. "Oh, and why are we on the floor, by the way?"

"The last thing I remember is that we were going to help Lestrade," the detective shifted, pulling away a little in order to give John some space. "I think we succeeded, by the way."

The doctor immediately tensed in his arms. "Oh my god! Lestrade... Where is he?"

"Open your eyes, John," Sherlock said softly, hugging his distraught companion close. "He's here, and he's okay, don't worry."

But John was already struggling in his arms, pulling away, and raising himself up on his elbow. Sherlock growled in protest, but the good doctor was too determined to have his way, and finally the younger man gave up and let him go.

John turned around and smiled apologetically at his soulmate. "Sherlock, I just..."

The dark-haired man waved his hand dismissively. "You need to check everything yourself, to make sure. I understand, John. Go ahead."

The ex-army doctor flashed him another smile – warm and grateful this time – and shuffled closer to Lestrade, intending to check the DI over, only to be interrupted by some quite insistent knocking on the door.

"Not now, Stanley," Sherlock called out with irritation. "I clearly remember asking you not to disturb us!"

"Doctor Barlow had informed me about your request, Sherlock," Mycroft voice was calm and confident as ever. "But we need to speak immediately. Norman Norton is on his way here."

John turned back to face Sherlock, frowning. "Norton? Sherlock, can you PLEASE explain to me finally, WHO the hell he is?"

"Our new main problem," the younger man said shortly. "We need at least five minutes, Mycroft."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but we don't have time to spare right now. I'm coming in."

Sherlock sprang up from the floor, dashing towards the door to intercept his brother while John shifted his attention back to Lestrade – right in time to see the DI stirring slightly and opening his eyes.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Greg," the blond doctor said softly, placing his hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

The silver-haired man blinked his eyes several times, then turned his head towards John, a puzzled expression appearing on his face. "John? Is that you?"

"Yes," the ex-army medic said carefully. "Greg, are you okay?"

"Not sure," the DI made a move to get up, but John immediately pushed him down. "Is it dark already? I can't see you, John."

Lestrade's words seemed to draw Mycroft's immediate attention. The politician firmly pushed his brother out of his way as he moved towards the two men on the floor. "Gregory, what's the matter?"

"Mycroft?" Lestrade batted John's restraining hand away and pushed himself into a sitting position. "It's kind of dark in here; can somebody turn on the lights?"

Silence stretched uncomfortably in the room, as the realisation dawned and John waved a trembling hand in front of Greg's eyes.

Sherlock exhaled noisily, and Lestrade's head swivelled in his direction. "Sherlock? What the hell is going on here?"

"Oh my God..," John whispered brokenly, covering his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry, Greg..."

"John? What..," the DI asked, despair heard clearly in his voice. "Am I..," he fell silent, unable to continue.

It was Sherlock, who delivered the horrifying truth in an emotionless, matter-of-fact voice.

One word.

"Blind."


	13. Asking Questions

The blinking red dot disappeared from Norton's mental map the moment he set foot onto the first step of the ramp of his private jet. The psychic stopped, a slight frown creasing his forehead, while he tried to re-establish the connection.

"Sir?" Melford called out quietly, snapping his superior out of his reverie. "Is something wrong?"

A sardonic smile curved Norton's thin lips. "No, not at all, Damian. But it looks like young Sherlock is not as clever as I expected him to be. Unless..."

The PA waited for his boss to continue, but the banker obviously had a sudden change of mind. Not saying a word, he quickly ascended the ramp, beckoning Melford to follow. The dark-suited man, accustomed to Norton's manner, walked up the ramp and into the plane, habitually taking a seat across from his boss. Damian knew for a fact that the banker would eventually continue the unfinished sentence – it was one of Norton's little quirks, he liked Melford to be on alert for his every word and movement.

There also was another thing, of which the PA was well aware: Norton preferred such waiting periods to be productive. Mindful of that, Damian retrieved his laptop and busied himself with the task of sorting out the recent reports from Norton's operatives.

Norman leaned back in his seat, observing his PA with accustomed appreciation. Melford had been working for him for two years now, and the banker was used to rely on the younger man completely. Damian, with his remarkable appearance and refined manners, had become an integral part of Norton's life; although the beginning of this working relationship was quite memorable. When Norman saw his soon-to-be PA for the first time, the term 'ugly duckling syndrome' immediately came to the banker's mind. The younger man's clothes were ill-fitting, his dark brown hair overly long and unkempt, facial features too sharp and his tawny eyes bright with fever. 'Sick, dehydrated and malnourished,' Norton's mind supplied as the banker paused on his way to the car, 'but there's something odd about him, something doesn't fit in this picture'. Intrigued, but not being able to spare the time for solving this puzzle, Norman made a simple decision – he took the youngster with him.

Shipped off to some private clinic, Damian Melford made an impressively quick recovery, and a week later Norton came to collect the younger man after he was discharged from the clinic. Damian was suspicious at first, outright refusing to follow his new 'sponsor', so the psychic was forced to use his power of suggestion in order to get the younger man into his car. Norton realised that as soon as Melford would break from his induced trance, there was going to be a serious confrontation between them, so he made sure to reach his residence as soon as possible.

The boy had undeveloped abilities - Norton could see that much. He would never be able to reach Norman's level, but the banker was interested in Damian only as his personal assistant, so Melford's current condition suited Norton just fine.

To his mild surprise, the younger man didn't put up the expected fight when they arrived at Norton's mansion. On the contrary, he seemed to be polite and even-tempered as Norman offered him a job and proceeded to outline its benefits. There was a slight delay as Melford contemplated everything that had been said to him, and a moment later he accepted Norton's offer, fully satisfied with the banker's conditions...

"Sir?" Melford called quietly, interrupting his superior's thoughts. "Sir, we will be landing soon. The car to the hotel is already waiting at the airfield. Is there anything else you require?"

"Not for today, Damian. Let us just settle at our temporary lodgings and have a quick look around. We'll have quite a busy day tomorrow..."

* * *

Mycroft turned to look at his brother, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Sherlock, would you mind explaining, what happened here?"

"Not now, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, starting to move in John's direction, his gaze fixed on his soulmate's huddled figure.

"Wrong answer, Sherlock," the older Holmes reached out and grabbed the younger man's shoulder, jerking him back and spinning around so they were facing each other. "Gregory was perfectly fine when I left this room not that long ago. And now, after your interference, I discover that he's blind - which brings forth an obvious question: what have you done?"

Sherlock shivered, suddenly becoming quite aware of a numbness gradually spreading through his body. It took a moment for him to detect that his shoulder was the starting point – the same shoulder Mycroft was still gripping, and the younger man's eyes widened.

His brother's touch was freezing him, and that certainly wasn't the first time it happened.

Sherlock growled low in his throat and wrestled Mycroft's hand off his shoulder, immediately backing away. The politician huffed in irritation and took a step forward, only to be shoved back by snarling Sherlock.

"I said 'not now', Mycroft!" the dark-haired man hissed, his expression rapidly becoming irritated. "I have no time for explanations, and you're really not welcome here at the moment!"

The politician narrowed his eyes. "Fine, but this conversation is far from finished, Sherlock. I need answers, and I'm expecting you to provide them quite soon."

With that, the older Holmes turned around and left the room at a brisk pace, almost colliding with Stanley Barlow just outside the door. Sherlock's physician stumbled back, apologising profusely, and Mycroft stared him down, his blue eyes cold and hard.

"You are supposed to do your job here, Doctor Barlow, not spend your time uselessly... hanging around and missing out on vital moments," the politician said in a deliberately controlled voice – in the same patented tone which usually sent his opponents running for cover. "Get to work."

Chastened, Stanley quickly ducked inside the sitting room and Mycroft went down the corridor, still irritated with his brother but managing to successfully shift his attention onto more pressing matters – namely the possibility of Norman Norton's arrival.

Sherlock's new talents did nothing to alleviate his own temper – if anything, Mycroft thought, he had became even more insufferable. But while his younger sibling was adapting to his new skills, somebody ought to be taking care of more mundane things – the task Mycroft was accustomed to and had been performing successfully all these years.

He needed to make sure they all would prevail, and if, by chance, it turned out otherwise – well, at least he wanted to know that he had done everything in his power to prevent that.

A doubtful solace, if he failed, but Mycroft Holmes had always been one who preferred to have the last laugh, even if he finally ended up laughing on the edge of his own grave.

* * *

As soon as Mycroft left, Sherlock turned around and looked at the two men near the fireplace. Neither of them had changed position during the detective's heated argument with his brother: John was still kneeling, hands pressed to his face, and Lestrade sat on the floor with his eyes closed, his legs bent and hugged to his chest, and his chin resting on his knees.

Sherlock glanced at Barlow as the sandy-haired doctor took a hesitant step forward. "Take care of Lestrade, Stanley. I need to help John, and I'd rather not be disturbed. So I would greatly appreciate it, if you'd take the Detective Inspector to his room and keep him company for the time being."

"Don't you dare to treat me like a backbone-lacking puppet, Sherlock!" Lestrade said sternly, causing Barlow to jerk in surprise. "I may be blind, but I'm still me."

The dark-haired man just raised an eyebrow, waiting for the DI to continue his rant.

And continue Lestrade did, but not exactly in a way Sherlock expected. "Where's John?"

The younger man's lips twitched into an amused smile for a moment, and after that he went stone-faced again. "Just a little to your right."

Lestrade hummed and cautiously reached out, his hand seeking contact with the ex-army doctor's body. A few seconds later he touched one of John's arms and immediately latched onto it, swinging his body around to face the doctor.

"John," Greg called softly, causing the blond-haired man to drop his arms down and take a shuddering breath. "John, it's not your fault. I know that you've done everything you could."

"It wasn't enough," the doctor whispered listlessly.

"It's not the end," Lestrade contradicted. "I'm sure we'll figure it out."

"Always so optimistic, Greg," John shook his head slightly, but there was a faint trace of hope in his voice, and Lestrade used that as an opportunity to lighten the doctor's mood.

"Of course I bloody am, John. And don't even think of giving up, because I swear I will make your life a living hell if you do!" Lestrade promised jokingly, fumbling to grab both John's hands and giving them a squeeze.

Grateful that the DI couldn't see his face now, the blond doctor smiled sadly; but none of that sadness was heard in his voice as he answered. "In Arduis Fidelis, Greg, remember? Faithful in Adversity."

"Good," Lestrade nodded, letting go of John's hands. "Now I'll leave you two alone, you surely have much to talk about. Doctor Barlow?"

"Yes, Detective Inspector?" Stanley enquired, moving closer to the blind man.

"Would you be so kind to lead me to my room? I need to rest," the DI rose to his feet and stood waiting, his right arm outstretched.

"Certainly," Barlow stepped up to the police inspector and took his hand, guiding it on the crook of his elbow. "Ready, sir?"

"Loose the 'sir', Doctor," Lestrade curled his fingers around his guide's elbow. "Just call me Greg."

"Okay, Greg. Shall we?"

"Lead the way, Stanley," the silver-haired man prompted, and the physician took a careful step forward, pulling the DI along. Moving carefully step by step, the two men left the room, closing the door and leaving Sherlock and John in private…

* * *

A rented car took Norton and his PA to a nice country hotel, in which Melford previously had booked an executive suite for his boss and a single room for himself. They checked in and were led to their respective quarters, Norman requesting Damian's presence in his suite in fifteen minutes.

With Damian's habit of always travelling light, it didn't take him too much time to unpack. So a quarter of an hour later, after a quick look around, Melford knocked on the door of Norton's suite.

"Come in, Damian," his boss called out, and the younger man pushed the door open, stepping inside. "Already settled in, I see?"

"Yes, sir," the PA looked down at his informal attire – dark trousers, white shirt under a beige jumper – and crossed the room, coming to stand near an open door to a patio. "Are you pleased with your accommodations, sir?"

Norton's suite was light, spacious and comfortable, with light brown furniture, matching curtains and geometrically themed upholstery on the armchairs. Being Norman's PA for two years, Damian knew his boss' habits and preferences perfectly, including the fact that 'comfortable' in Norton's vocabulary equaled 'useful'. And that, in turn meant 'nothing too modern or too colorful'.

"Absolutely, Mister Melford," the banker joined his PA and gestured towards the patio. "Let us go outside for a while. We have quite a few interesting topics to discuss."

"Certainly, sir," Damian waited a second for Norton to start moving, and immediately followed him onto the patio. "Do I need to take notes during our conversation?"

"No, my dear Damian," Norman walked to the deckchair and sat down. "None of our topics will be work-related. I simply wish to satisfy your curiosity which I had evidently piqued earlier on the ramp of the plane."

The PA moved to the other deckchair and dragged it around, positioning it so they were sitting across from each other. "Am I supposed to ask questions?"

"Yes," Norton confirmed. "But, considering that we have quite an eventful day tomorrow, you are allowed to ask only five questions. Take time to consider them, Damian. I'm going to give you my opinion about the current situation, but you should bear in mind that every coin has two sides. So start thinking..."

* * *

The second Sherlock and John were alone, the dark-haired man practically leapt across the room, crashing onto his knees near his soulmate and pulling him into a bone-cracking embrace. Too long, he spent too damn long just watching John's beautiful colours dimming into a dull grey and his – their – shield thinning dangerously. It was a real torture for Sherlock not to be able to soothe and comfort John physically – there was too much interference, too many problems requiring immediate actions in order to get rid of them – even if it was temporary.

It was all wrong – everything involving Lestrade, Mycroft, even John. Painfully, dreadfully wrong.

Especially with John, who was now rigid and unyielding in his arms, not moving, not saying anything.

Refusing him, shutting him out, pushing him away – not literally, although that type of refusal would have been the only he could bear.

John was grieving, blaming himself for Lestrade's blindness, and refusing to share his burden with his soulmate.

Sherlock felt absolutely helpless.

"John, talk to me," he whispered.

The blond head moved slightly to the left, then to the right, then returned to the starting position.

No.

"Lestrade said it's not your fault," the younger man insisted.

"Doesn't change anything," the voice was lifeless and hollow. "He's still blind. And we caused it."

"Are you sure of that?"

"We were alone in this room. Only the three of us. You told Stanley..."

"You are forgetting something. We both have a gap in our memory. Somebody has done that to us. And you know perfectly well who, or shall I say, what is capable of such things."

"You can't possibly mean..," the body in his arms was coming alive, thrumming with disbelief, and finally radiating emotions.

"I'm just assuming. Not enough data to say for certain. But logically..."

A quiet chuckle. "Only you can talk about logic at such a moment," a hand sliding along his left arm to grasp his shoulder. "What are you proposing for us to do?"

Sherlock pulled away and proceeded to turn John so they now were sitting on the floor, the doctor's legs bent and the detective's, in turn, placed on either side of his soulmate's. After that Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and looked straight into his eyes, holding his gaze.

' _Lean your head forward and close your eyes, John,'_ Sherlock's voice whispered in his head, and the blond man frowned in confusion.

"Why?"

' _I want to try something new. And besides, we need to be careful this time, considering that we don't remember our previous encounter with our mentor at all.'_

"You still think... it... is responsible?"

' _As I already said – not enough data. Let's proceed with caution, shall we?'_

"OK. So, apart from leaning my head forward and closing my eyes, what else to you want me to do?"

Sherlock smiled enigmatically. _'Just watch.'_

John rolled his eyes at him, and then did as he was told.

' _Good,'_ Sherlock praised, resting his forehead against his soulmate's. ' _Now put your hand on the nape of my neck.'_

John's head immediately snapped up. "What?"

Sherlock calmly pushed the doctor's head into a previous position. _'Do you trust me?'_

"Of course, but..."

' _Then just follow my lead. Hand on the nape of my neck, John.'_

The ex-army doctor sighed in exasperation and obeyed, spreading his fingers over the soft skin of Sherlock's nape...

 _...And the next moment he found himself standing near the mouth of a cave with Sherlock by his side._

" _Time to find the answers, John," his soulmate declared, taking John's hand and leading him into the cave._

 _The walk wasn't long, and soon the narrow passage opened into a large room, lit by torches mounted in holders on the walls. There was a stone dais in the centre of the room, and John stopped abruptly, his brows furrowing._

" _It seems familiar..," he whispered, and Sherlock turned to look at him, eyebrow raised in enquiry._

" _We were waiting for your return, Chosen Ones," the voice of their mentor flowed from nowhere. "Please come forward, we have some vitally important news for you."_

 _The two men walked to the centre of the room and sat down, Sherlock's arm immediately settling on John's shoulders in a gesture of silent support._

" _If this news is about our friend's blindness, then don't bother – we're aware of that already. We just wanted to know how exactly it happened, because it looks like SOMEBODY messed with our memory," Sherlock said pointedly. "So, care to explain this little mishap?"_

" _It was through our oversight that the one you call Lestrade was harmed," their mentor admitted, sadness sounding clear in his voice. "By cunning subterfuge your enemy had concealed his true plan from us..."_

" _Yes, we get the picture, no need to elaborate," interrupted Sherlock impatiently. "The question is, what should we do now?"_

" _We will show the Quiet One what your enemy has done with your friend's mind, and we will teach him how to heal that damage."_

" _Right. Okay. And what about me? Do you need me to do anything while you teach the Quiet One?"_

" _You just need to hold him close and lend him your support, Curious One."_

 _Sherlock nodded wordlessly and manoeuvred them so they now were laying on their sides, facing each other, Sherlock's arms cradling John close._

" _Have a safe journey, my Quiet One," he whispered, and John closed his eyes, nestled comfortably in his soulmate's embrace._

 _Sherlock couldn't tell exactly how long it lasted, but suddenly John jerked in his arms, pulling away and pushing himself into a sitting position, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes wide open and full of fear._

" _Oh my God," the doctor whispered, turning towards his soulmate and gripping his shoulders, his expression desperate. "Sherlock, we need to bring Greg here immediately, or that thing in his head going to leave him blind for the rest of his life."_


	14. A Sacrifice

_Of course Sherlock couldn't stop himself from asking a very logical question._

" _Why?"_

" _No time to explain, Sherlock," John bit out. "We need to get to Greg right now, or it's going to be too late."_

 _Caught in an overwhelming tide of his soulmate's desperation, the younger man nodded and closed his eyes. 'Follow me, John.'_

 _The ex-army doctor took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and the next moment both men felt a rush of energy coursing through their bodies; then a flash of a blinding light, a felling of weightlessness – and they were back._

"Let's hope he hasn't fallen asleep yet," John said anxiously, disentangling himself and getting up from the floor. Right after that he held his hand out for Sherlock to take and the dark-haired man accepted it gratefully, allowing John to pull him to his feet.

"There's only one way to find out, John," the detective replied, his eyes never leaving his soulmate's face. "Let's go."

The blond doctor whirled around and darted off as if Sherlock's words were all he had been waiting for. The younger man followed suit, easily matching John's rapid pace.

' _You have to admit, two-way telepathy would be very beneficial at a moment like this,'_ Sherlock mused, chasing after John through corridors and staircases on their way to Lestrade's room.

"I can understand your curiosity, you want to know what's going on," the ex-army medic answered, taking a deep breath and slowing down a little. "Perhaps I can give you a brief visual of our problem."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in enquiry, but before he had time to form an answering thought, John stopped, causing Sherlock to plough straight into him. It seemed, though, as if his soulmate was waiting for that, because the next moment John reached upwards and back with his left hand, placing his fingertips on Sherlock's temple.

A picture appeared before the younger man's mind eye, and then faded almost instantly, but it was enough to make him gasp in shock.

"Exactly," John confirmed his apprehension. "Now we need to move, before this bloody thing has the chance to take over. It's fuelled by melatonin, so if Greg falls asleep..."

' _His brain is toast, I got it,'_ Sherlock nudged his friend forward. _'We're almost there; it's just a few steps...'_

The ex-army medic nodded and quickly crossed the remaining distance, then, not bothering with the knocking, simply yanked the door open.

Startled by the sudden intrusion, Stanley Barlow jumped up from the chair near the bed, looking at the two men in confusion. But John didn't even spare him a fleeting glance, focusing on the motionless figure under the covers instead.

"How long has he been asleep?" the ex-army medic barked, his military persona kicking in and forcing Barlow to straighten hastily.

"A-about five minutes..," he stammered, and watched in bewilderment as John lunged towards the bed, flinging the covers aside and shaking the sleeping DI furiously. "What... what's going on?"

"Please, don't let it be too late," the blond doctor begged desperately, rolling Lestrade onto his back and framing the DI's face with his palms. "Sherlock, I need you here."

"Yes, John," the detective turned to look at his physician, and the sandy-haired doctor nodded in understanding and moved towards the door. "Thank you, Stanley."

"No worries," Barlow confirmed, stepping outside. "I'll make sure you aren't disturbed this time."

"There's no need, we are just going to lock the door from the inside," Sherlock said firmly.

"Okay," Stanley answered, closing the door carefully. A few seconds later he heard the soft click and, reassured by that small sound, the physician took a several steps down the corridor and went into his room…

* * *

During the two years Damian Melford had been working for Norton, he learned a few very useful things. The most important one was the fact that his boss didn't like his time being wasted by anything.

Mindful of that, the PA took a couple of minutes to consider his questions, and come to the conclusion that he had only one.

"Well?" Norman prompted, as if reading his mind – which he probably did, Melford thought briefly.

"Why Sherlock Holmes, sir?" he asked with mild interest, noticing an immediate spark in his superior's eyes.

"Excellent question, my dear Damian," the corners of Norton's lips twitched upwards for a moment. "It's good to know once again that I wasn't mistaken on your account."

'Trust the great Norman Norton to perceive everything in financial terms', the younger man mused, an attentive expression never leaving his face. "I'm glad I didn't disappoint you, sir."

"Oh, I think that's hardly possible now," Norman remarked with a smirk. "Anyway, where were we?"

"Sherlock Holmes, sir," Melford repeated, hitching up slightly in the deckchair – it looked like they were going to spend quite some time discussing Norton's recent object of interest, so he thought he might as well make himself comfortable.

"Ah, yes. Sherlock Holmes. You are aware that he was trying to infiltrate our organisation not long ago, I suppose?"

Damian nodded, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Yes, I remember some reports on that matter. I was surprised that you had allowed him to dig quite deeply, sir."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, my dear Damian. Granted, he managed to gather a fair amount of information about our organisation; but when it comes to significance of said intel... Alas, most of it was counterfeit. And that's exactly why I had allowed young Sherlock to nose around."

"I see," the PA said thoughtfully, remembering the incident with the lost Memory Stick, which mystically disappeared from the locked safe in Norton's office, and the missing surveillance footage. "So, the whole business with the break-in..."

"Merely a stunt, orchestrated with the purpose of throwing Sherlock off the scent," Norman confirmed. "And, at the same time, the perfect opportunity to set the stage for the main act of the play."

"So there were the other reasons for his involvement, then?" asked Melford, fully aware that his boss was not-so-subtly directing their conversation to its true topic.

"Reason, Damian. The one and only, for that matter," the banker corrected. "He's the gifted one."

"Yes, he's well-known for his deductive power," Damian said, pretending not to understand the true meaning of Norton's words. It was their well-oiled routine: from time to time his boss needed to show off, and the PA always indulged him on that little whim.

"You know full well that I wasn't referring to his brainwork; at least not in a common sense," Norman replied, holding his gaze, his pale eyes sharp and cutting.

"But he certainly wasn't exhibiting the signs," Melford objected. "Not until his clinical death, that is."

Norton simply raised an eyebrow.

"Which reminds me, by the way," the PA continued swiftly, unperturbed by Norman's scrutiny. "Considering the level of surveillance Mycroft Holmes has on his younger brother, I was quite surprised that it was so easy for our agent to assassinate Sherlock."

The psychic smiled slightly. "Let's just say that I'm not the only one who tends to plan ahead, Damian."

Melford frowned. "Sir, are you implying..."

"Our organisation is the force one shouldn't underestimate," Norton said calmly. "And Mycroft Holmes is a man with the inborn talent of precise assessment. He's always aware of the state of affairs, and quite capable of making ruthless decisions if he deems them necessary."

The PA's frown deepened. "But he couldn't possibly… I mean, they are BROTHERS…"

"My dear Damian," Norman interrupted him patiently. "Do you remember the beginning of our conversation? I said that I'm going to express MY opinion. Every coin has two sides, remember?"

"Right," the frown was once again replaced by unruffled, calm expression. "So may I enquire about your plans concerning the younger Holmes?"

"As I said already, he's the gifted one. Having him on our side would've been very beneficial," the banker replied with a slight quirk of an eyebrow, daring his assistant to contradict that statement.

Needless to say, he wasn't disappointed.

"Forgive me my bluntness, sir, but I seriously doubt that Sherlock Holmes could be in any way persuaded to join our organisation; at least not voluntarily."

"Ah, the universal question of right and wrong," Norman smiled slightly. "Young Sherlock has a purely logical approach to everything. And you know perfectly well that when it comes to logic, everything that's said can be twisted and turned in a way that it suits the one who perceives it."

"In other words, you are certain that, if presented with suitable and irrefutable arguments, Sherlock Holmes will be willing to accept our proposal?"

"One can never be certain of anything, Damian," the banker replied calmly. "But one should never be thwarted in the attempts of achieving one's goals."

"I see," Melford nodded, mentally rolling his eyes. Sometimes Norman Norton went too far in his tendency to be cryptic, and the PA, knowing about that idiosyncrasy of his superior too well, shifted Norton's attention onto another topic. "So what plans do we have for tomorrow, sir?"

The psychic narrowed his eyes slightly. "Turning back to the practical side of things, aren't you, Mister Melford?"

There was no point in tiptoeing around the subject, so Damian held his boss' gaze without flinching. "I'm a practical man, sir. It's what I get paid for, isn't it?"

Norton smirked, and the PA allowed himself a little smile in return. Another part of their accustomed ritual: 'bow and bend, show your allegiance'. "How well you know me, my dear Damian..."

"It's my duty and my purpose, sir," Melford answered easily, his tone respectful and his eyes downcast.

Sometimes Damian Melford really wondered if he had a masochistic side in him; because surely no-one in his right mind would be willing to endure such regular occurrences of belittling themselves, even if they were paid a meaningful sum of money for that. Maybe the knowledge that he had a far greater purpose was helping him survive his job; although Damian considered his ability to hide his true nature a lucky thing.

"Today is for rest, Mister Melford. You can spend the remaining part of it in any way you desire," Norman said amiably, distracting his PA from his thoughts. "And tomorrow we're going to pay a visit to Sherlock."

"Just like that?" Damian asked, surprised by his superior's straightforward approach to the problem. "And you think they are going to allow us in?"

"If my assumption is correct – and I'm fairly certain it is – they will be more than happy to do so," the banker said with confidence. "And that reminds me... Are you still practicing your meditation techniques?"

The younger man frowned again. "Yes," he said carefully. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Norton waved his hand dismissively. "You can take your leave now, Mister Melford; I don't think I will require your assistance until tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Melford rose to his feet. "Is there anything else you need while I'm here?"

"A glass of orange juice with ice, please," Norman answered, leaning back in his deckchair and closing his eyes. "And good night, Mister Melford."

The PA went inside briefly, and soon returned with a tall glass of juice.

"Good night, Mister Norton," he said quietly, placing the glass on the table. The banker gave a hum of acknowledgment, and right after that Damien left the suite, pulling his mobile phone out of his trousers' pocket.

As soon as he stepped into the corridor and closed the door, he dialled a familiar number.

"Hello, it's me... Yes... Yes, he's planning to do it tomorrow... Yes, I think it would be wise... No, I doubt that... I'll try to avoid that, but it can be difficult... Sure... Of course... Thank you, you too... Good night, Stan..."

Pocketing his phone, Melford went to his quarters, humming an off-hand tune. Tomorrow, he mused, was turning to be a quite interesting day...

* * *

John felt the bed dipping slightly under Sherlock's weight, and then two arms were gently manoeuvring him, so he ended up on his right side, facing the sleeping Lestrade. After that his soulmate crawled to the opposite side of the bed and settled to the right of the DI's body, mirroring the doctor's position.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock asked, reaching over Lestrade towards his soulmate's hand. The blond nodded wordlessly and entwined his fingers with Sherlock's, their clasped hands settling on the gray-haired man's chest, right over his heart. "Then close your eyes, my Quiet One."

The ex-army medic obeyed instantly and a moment after that, to his astonishment, the detective started a quiet chant. The words were strange and unfamiliar, but they rolled off Sherlock's tongue smoothly and effortlessly, giving his voice a pleasant lilt and a slight drawl, and John couldn't help but subside to the enchantment. Swirls of ever-changing colours filled his mind's eye, and he was swept away by the strong current of energy, which carried him deep into a blissful nothingness...

" _John," Sherlock's voice called to him, and then there was a hand, stroking his forehead gently. "John, wake up."_

 _The blond man slowly drifted awake, becoming uncomfortably aware of the hard plastic angles of the chair, in which he appeared to be sitting. Blinking his eyes open in confusion, he met his soulmate's worried gaze._

" _Sherlock... What's going on?" he asked weakly, a feeling of dread starting to flood his body at the sight of Sherlock's pain-filled expression._

" _It's bad, John. It's very, very bad," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking with despair. "Look around."_

 _The younger man stepped aside, and John could finally see were they were._

 _Barts' morgue._

 _There was a metal table in front of him, and – which was more terrifying – there was a body on it, covered with a white cloth from toes to chin._

 _The body of Greg Lestrade._

 _The DI's face was still and deathly pale, but a moment later John saw Greg's chest raising and falling rhythmically under that cloth._

 _Lestrade was still breathing, and for John it was the most wonderful thing at the moment._

 _But Sherlock, who still stood with his back to the table, hadn't seen that movement, so when John jumped up and dashed to the table, he followed his soulmate with a puzzled expression on his face._

" _There is still a chance to save him, Quiet One," their mentor said softly. "Look into his mind again."_

 _Sherlock, who jerked in surprise at the unexpected sound, recovered quite quickly. "You have a very twisted sense of humour, you know," he sniped. "Why morgue, why not the crypt?"_

" _This is not the time or the place for the useless irony, Curious One," the voice answered sternly. "The Quiet One needs your help right now, so stop wasting precious time!"_

 _It was the first time their mentor lost his – its – patience, and the temperature in the room abruptly dropped down a dozen of degrees._

" _Sherlock!" John snarled, shivering violently. "For God's sake, stop showing off and get over here, before I break your scrawny neck! Bloody hell, did I just said that aloud?"_

" _We are sorry, Quiet One," their mentor said apologetically, restoring the warmth in the room. "It was our outburst which caused you to act so irrationally."_

" _Maybe it is, but I must tell you, sometimes the Curious One really deserves a good dressing down," John grumbled. "What are you waiting for, Sherlock? A written invitation?"_

 _The tall man hesitantly shuffled forward, his head lowered and his shoulders slumped. "John..."_

" _Sherlock," the blond said warningly. "Just get over here and hug me."_

 _Startled, the detective took a shuddering breath, and hurried to obey, his arms sneaking around his soulmate's body in a clearly possessive embrace._

 _Reassured by Sherlock's proximity and revelling in comforting warmth his partner's body was providing, John took a deep breath and looked at Greg._

 _Sherlock was right – it looked terrible. Blackness was rapidly spreading through Lestrade's brain tissue, destroying brain cells and tearing apart blood vessels, causing them to bleed out._

" _No..," John whispered, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the horrific sight. "Oh my God, no... Not him... Not like this..."_

' _You still can save him,' their mentor's voice said softly in his head. 'But for that, a sacrifice should be made. Somebody should take his place.'_

" _But you're the higher power, surely you can fix him without making anyone else suffer," John whispered weakly, causing Sherlock to tighten his embrace._

" _What is it, John?" his soulmate enquired worriedly. "What's the matter?"_

" _Hush, Sherlock, calm down," he hastened to reassure the younger man, trying to keep his voice steady and careless. "I have everything under control."_

 _But their mentor wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily. "The Quiet One is making a decision to take your friend's place, so the one you call Greg Lestrade can survive."_

" _He's going to do WHAT?" Sherlock exclaimed, letting John go and spinning him around. "Please tell me you're not serious!"_

" _We have no choice, Sherlock. I've seen the damage. There's no way in hell I'm able to heal it. Somebody should take his place."_

" _But what about... Surely it can... I mean..," Sherlock stammered, seeing an unrelenting determination in the dark-grey eyes. "Why?"_

" _I don't know, Sherlock," John said honestly. "It has something to do with the severity of damage, as I understand. It can't be restored the usual way."_

" _But if you take his place, the same will happen to you, won't it?" Sherlock asked, his voice catching and breaking on every word. "What about me? You're just going to leave me, like that?"_

" _I'll find a way back, Sherlock, I promise," John said softly, framing the younger man's face with his palms. "You just need to wait. And meanwhile we can be together in your dreams."_

" _It's not enough, John," Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against John's. "I'm not going to let you do this. We'll find another way."_

" _There's NO other way, Sherlock, not this time," John shook his head slightly. "Please, don't make it harder than it already is."_

 _The blond let his soulmate go and started to turn away, only to be jerked around by furious Sherlock._

" _You're NOT doing this. Not if I have my say in the matter," the dark-haired man said stubbornly._

" _That's exactly what I was afraid of," John sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."_

" _John?" Sherlock asked in alarm, grabbing John's shoulders. "What are you doing?"_

" _Knock him out, please," John said quietly, shrugging his hands off and taking a step back._

" _John! No!" Sherlock yelled, lunging forward._

 _And the next moment everything went black._


	15. Logic vs Trust

Gregory Lestrade blinked his eyes open just in time to see Sherlock twisting-scrambling-pushing himself upright with a murderous: "Like HELL you are!" Right after that the great detective flopped down onto the bed again and proceeded to immediately pass out.

Flummoxed, the DI cautiously raised his head and surveyed his surroundings. He was laying flat on his back with Sherlock and John flanking him; both men were unconscious, but John was facing him and the doctor's palm was resting atop of Greg's heart. It felt a bit strange, but before Lestrade had time to think about it, he was surprised again by the sound of John's apologetic voice in his head.

' _I'm sorry, Greg, but I need to sort of hijack your body in order to speak to my impossibly stubborn soulmate. Just relax, I'll try to make it quick. And, for what it worth, I'm really sorry that I can't give you a choice on the matter, Greg.'_

Lestrade briefly wondered whether he should actually say something in reply or protest, but it looked like John wasn't really expecting him to. A few moments later the silver-haired man felt his eyelids starting to droop, and then a wave of pleasurable warmth spread through his body, pulling him back into a deep sleep.

* * *

 _The cave was still the same, except for a niche carved into the far wall. In that niche, behind the frosted glass, John stood rigidly, his eyes staring forward, unseeing._

 _As soon as Sherlock saw his soulmate, he rushed across the cave, slamming bodily into the glass surface and, without so much a thought, started to attack the unyielding material with his fists, trying to get to John._

" _Sherlock, you need to stop this," the familiar voice said behind him, and the dark-haired man jerked in surprise, whirled around and came face to face with Lestrade, who stared at him sympathetically. "This is not the right way to deal with it. You'll only make matters worse."_

" _Look who's talking!" Sherlock snarled, shoving Greg aside and stalking towards the dais. Reaching it, Sherlock spun around, perched himself on the corner of eminence and glared daggers at the DI. "If John hadn't made that idiotic decision to save you, we wouldn't be here now!"_

 _A sad smile twisted the corners of silver-haired man's lips downwards. "I didn't expect you to understand my reasons, Sherlock. But I thought you'd value Greg's life more – he has saved your sorry ass more than once, after all. I hope this small detail didn't escape your attention, did it?"_

 _Stunned by Lestrade's stern words, the detective frowned in confusion. "Lestrade, what the hell are you talking about?"_

 _The silver-haired man shook his head slightly and started walking towards him. "Sherlock-Sherlock-Sherlock," he chided softly. "You still aren't very quick on the uptake with all that supernatural stuff, are you?"_

 _The younger man narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the DI for a few moments, and then..._

" _John?" he whispered in disbelief, his eyes opening wide._

" _Finally!" Greg chuckled slightly and Sherlock blinked – that sound was so much like John._

" _But... How?" the grey-blue eyes met the brown ones and one elegant eyebrow was quirked up._

" _Asks the man who allowed higher powers to possess his body," Lestrade crossed his arms on his chest. "I think you should be familiar with the mechanics by now."_

" _I did that to help you save Greg," Sherlock pointed out calmly. "The question is why YOU decided to take him over?"_

" _Because I need to tell you something important, and considering that we already have one incorporeal voice in our life, I thought that seeing a familiar face would be more comforting."_

" _Well, I hate to break it to you, John, but you thought wrong. I'd rather you projected yourself in another way," the younger man slid down from the dais and crossed the cave to John's stasis chamber, pressing his palms to the cool glass. "It's not exactly a pleasant experience, I assure you."_

 _A frown creased the DI's forehead. "What do you mean?"_

" _Nothing," Sherlock turned around, putting his hands behind his back. "Let him go, John. You took him over without his consent, and it can seriously damage both of you."_

 _Lestrade nodded, took a couple of steps forward and then suddenly crumpled to the floor with a soft gasp._

 _Alarmed, the dark-haired man lunged forward, only to pass straight through his soulmate who suddenly appeared in his way. Both gave a yelp of surprise and Sherlock spun around to face... well, whatever IT was._

" _Well, you did ask me to project myself in another way," John pointed out imperturbably. "Although it's the first time I have been referred as 'IT'"._

 _Not bothering to acknowledge John's words, Sherlock turned away and crouched down next to Lestrade, laying a tentative hand on the DI's shoulder. Greg stirred slightly at the touch and the younger man breathed out a sigh of relief._

" _Greg, can you hear me?" Sherlock called quietly, curling his fingers into the older man's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"_

" _Yes. Strange," Lestrade uttered curtly and tried to pull himself into a sitting position. "Ow! What the hell happened to me and where am I?"_

" _You passed out and dropped like a stone," Sherlock stated calmly. "As to where you are – I think you should ask John about that."_

 _The doctor's projection moved into view, and Greg's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry, Greg, I really shouldn't..."_

" _Bloody hell!" Lestrade interrupted, when he glimpsed the stasis chamber out of the corner of his eye. Shocked, the police inspector finally managed to prop himself up with his arms planted behind his back, and then locked his eyes with John's hologram. "Okay, I'm listening."_

 _The image of John closed his eyes and flickered briefly. "Sorry, it's... kind of hard to project with this thing trying to dissolve my brain. Perhaps I can show it to you?"_

 _Greg remembered John's voice in his head and wondered if 'showing' required telepathy as well. It was a bit unsettling, but on the other hand, if for John showing required less effort than speaking, the DI was willing to let John into his mind again._

" _Actually the effort is the same in both cases, but I'm grateful for your understanding, Greg," the blond man said softly. "So, how about making ourselves a bit more comfortable?"_

 _Sherlock, who was watching and listening them silently, cleared his throat. "John, I don't think it would be wise, considering your condition. You won't be able to support an additionally constructed reality long enough – it will only make matters worse. We're all perfectly comfortable here; just get on with the program."_

 _John's projection seemed to regard his soulmate's words for a few moments, and then nodded its head. "Fine. But the two of you should better lie down: the process may be a bit tiring."_

 _Without a word, the DI lowered himself down, with Sherlock following his example a second later._

" _Good," John said gently. "Now relax and don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."_

 _In a blink of an eye, John's image vanished, leaving Lestrade frowning in confusion. But Sherlock, who, due to his gift, could clearly see a fluctuating cloud of John's vital energy, smiled softly and reached out with his mind, connecting with a steady stream of his friend's consciousness and guiding it towards them._

 _It was the first time since their merging, the younger man realised, when he could clearly see and feel the very soul of his significant other. It sparkled with so many colours and hues that Sherlock immediately gave up trying to catalogue and describe them. As for the sensations – it felt like every cell in his body was purified with clearest spring water and warmed by caressing rays of sun._

 _Sherlock felt protected. Cherished._

 _Loved._

 _Nestled comfortably in a cocoon of John's energy, the dark-haired man relaxed and tuned in to his soulmate and Lestrade's conversation._

" _So let me get this straight," the DI said slowly, his voice tinted with disbelief. "There was a... thing... in my head that was EATING my brain from inside out?"_

' _More or less correct, Greg,' John agreed mentally, and Sherlock blinked in surprise at actually hearing his soulmate's thoughts. 'And yes, Sherlock, it looks like you took another step forward with the 'coming online' thing.'_

" _Oh, great," Lestrade uttered in exasperation. "So now both of you are going to be in my head?"_

' _Only temporarily, Greg,' the ex-army medic hastened to reassure. 'Till the moment I find the means to get rid of this 'brain-eating' thing. Oh, and don't worry; I'll make sure Sherlock won't trespass on your hospitality.'_

 _There was the hint of a smile in John's voice, and Lestrade found himself starting to grin. "Thank you, John."_

' _Not at all, Greg,' John answered warmly. 'Now, to answer your question: yes, I took that thing out of your head and put it in mine.'_

" _But if you were able to simply take it out, why didn't you try to destroy it right after that?" the DI asked, frowning in confusion._

' _Lestrade has a point, John,' Sherlock piped in. 'I was going to ask you the same question but you were in such a hurry to knock me out.'_

 _The ex-army medic was silent for a few moments. 'Well, to tell the truth, it wasn't me who took it out. It was our mentor. He said there was no other way.'_

" _And you believed him? Just like that?" the police inspector said in disbelief._

' _He was quite... persuasive,' John muttered. 'Said there would be consequences... Unpleasant ones...'_

" _Sounds awfully like an attempt at intimidation for me," Greg uttered cautiously._

" _Perhaps we can assist you with this explanation, Quiet One," their mentor's voice interrupted unexpectedly, causing Sherlock and Lestrade to jerk in surprise. "We will give a brief visual demonstration of mentioned consequences, if you'd like."_

 _The detective immediately felt a wave of relief that rippled through his soulmate's entire being._

' _Yes, please,' John answered hurriedly. 'If you'd be so kind.'_

 _It seems like their mentor was too happy to oblige John, because a second later a colourful vision was transmitted straight into Sherlock and Greg's minds._

 _According to said vision, the "brain-eating thing" was bound to explode merely a moment after the extraction, inevitably killing Lestrade._

 _Sherlock was first to react. "Impressive, but doesn't actually prove anything. It's just a version of events, not necessary accurate, if I may add. How can we be sure that you're telling the truth?"_

" _Sherlock!" John hissed warningly._

" _I'm sorry, John, but you know perfectly well that I take nothing on trust. Not without verifying the information first."_

 _John's tension suddenly seemed to fill the space around them. "Sherlock, now is not the best time..."_

" _On the contrary, Quiet One," their mentor said calmly. "We can perfectly understand the Curious One's reluctance to believe. His trust was betrayed so many times that..."_

 _The younger man snorted. "For the presumably superior higher power being your attempt to divert our attention from the subject is positively lame."_

" _Sherlock!" John growled again, but this time less sternly._

" _Don't you dare to 'Sherlock' me, John!" the detective snapped, his tone hard as steel. "It's time to clear some issues, don't you think?"_

" _We are listening, Curious One," the voice was still calm and levelled, as if Sherlock's attempts at intimidation were regarded as a childish babble._

 _Irked, the dark-haired man pushed himself into a sitting position and locked his arms around his knees. "Well, putting aside your amateurish endeavour to meddle in my private life, let's dot all i's and cross all t's. Who the hell are you? And please, don't insult my intelligence by giving me that rubbish about collective consciousness," Sherlock scowled, throwing his hands up in an abrupt gesture of air quotes. "I've already tolerated that for far too long."_

* * *

Until recently, Stanley Barlow considered himself pretty much ordinary and boring. Growing up in a medical family and being a caring and kind-hearted person, he naturally followed in his parent's footsteps. He never thought about choosing anything else; his destiny was crystal clear for him, emboldened by the successful careers of his ancestors.

Compared to the other family members' lives, Stanley's was bleak and uneventful: college, Uni, internship and, finally, a position as GP at a small private clinic. Granted, he had some interesting patients from time to time; but mostly his work was extremely dull.

Until that memorable evening in a bar.

To tell the truth, he wasn't quite sure why he had accepted his colleague's invitation. Maybe because the day was too taxing, and he desperately needed an opportunity to relax in a familiar company; or maybe it was his desire to try and mend his relationship with Amanda… Whatever it was, Barlow decided not to dwell on it any longer and bravely took his chance.

Of course he had been too optimistic.

Frankly, the evening DID start very good. They went to a nice small restaurant in Soho, ordered delicious food and were intent on spending a pleasant evening together: first at the restaurant and then at Stan's place.

It all turned out to be wishful thinking on Barlow's part. He couldn't even remember WHY the argument started, but he remembered perfectly how it ended. A seemingly harmless joke turned into a few heated, hurtful words, and a moment later they were hurling spiteful insults at each other. Amanda stormed out first, throwing the contents of her wine glass into his face. Enraged, Stan shouted abuse into her retreating back, then surprisingly calmly paid the bill and left the restaurant.

Vexed and utterly disappointed, the sandy-haired doctor went to the nearest bar to calm his nerves with a few pints of beer, not suspecting for a moment that his world was about to be turned upside down for the rest of his life.

The man in the far corner caught Stan's attention almost immediately – it was a little strange to see such a smartly dressed person in a regular bar, after all. A tailored black suit, a snow-white shirt with black stripes, a patterned tie, neatly combed short hair and piercing dark eyes that seemed to follow each of Barlow's movements with frightening concentration.

Being the centre of such intrusive attention was fairly unpleasant, and Stanley made his way over to the stranger's table, fully intending to give the intruder a piece of his mind. But, strangely enough, he was calming down with each step that he was taking, and when he finally got to his designation, a small smile was playing on his lips.

The dark-suited man answered with a smile of his own and indicated a chair across of him.

"Would you be so kind to keep me company?"

The stranger's voice was smooth and warm, and reminded Barlow about chocolate for some reason: deliciously rich, not too sweet and totally mesmerising. For a moment Stanley wondered where his inclination to accept this man's offer come from, but his hesitation didn't last long. Nodding, he slid into a seat at the stranger's table and a moment later his eyes met the man's tawny ones...

The rest of the evening went in a blur. Barlow remembered getting into a car at some point, mumbling his address, then a comforting arm sliding around his shoulders, a sharp sting in his neck, and after that the whole world fading away in a bright flash.

He woke up in his own living room, laid comfortably on the sofa with a pillow under his head and a blanket thrown over him. The lights in the room were dimmed, and the mysterious stranger sat in the arm-chair in front of the fireplace, flicking through one of Stanley's medical journals.

"Welcome back, Stanley," the dark-suited man greeted him, his eyes still fixed on the journal. "Sorry for being a bit harsh, but I needed to talk to you... in private."

'I should call the police,' Barlow thought briefly, his mind feeling fuzzy and disoriented from the drug.

"Certainly," the stranger agreed. "But in that case you'd miss the perfect opportunity to change your life in a way you always wanted."

"Now wait a minute!" Stanley finally interjected, gearing up for stern rebuff. "Who the hell are you, and who gave you the right to break in here?"

"Damian Melford, and I already told you my reasons."

"No, you didn't".

Melford glanced at him briefly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Very well, Doctor Barlow. And you're right, but I'm going to correct this mistake right now."

"Really? Well, go ahead. But a bit of warning: you have only five minutes, and then I'm calling the police."

"That's more than enough, Stanley," Melford reassured, locking gazes with him once again.

After his strange guest's explanation, Barlow passed out again for a while, and when he awoke, he was already alone in his flat. Melford was gone, but he had left a single sheet of paper with an address of a clinic in the outskirts of London. Melford's reasoning seemed to be well thought-out and infailable, and, after brief musings, Barlow decided to give it a try.

During the next few days, Stanley quit his job at the clinic, contacted the one that Melford had suggested, got a new job – surprisingly easy, in fact – and moved into a flat not far from his new workplace.

Melford paid him another visit when things appeared to settle down, and gave him a folder with a dossier on a man named Sherlock Holmes – a young, dark-haired consulting detective, who was going to be admitted in Barlow's clinic a week later (according to Melford, that is).

It turned out that Melford had miscalculated – Sherlock was brought by ambulance twelve days later.

And then it all went to hell in the proverbial hand basket...

Stan took the call as soon as he saw Damian's number appearing on the screen of his phone.

"Hello, it's me," Melford's voice was low, hushed, so this call obviously was supposed to be kept secret.

"Hello, Damian," Barlow said hurriedly. "I guess the cat is out of the bag, then?"

"Yes," the PA sounded clearly pleased by Stan's quick understanding.

"And it's going to run straight in our direction, I guess?"

A chuckle echoed down the line. "Yes, he's planning to do it tomorrow."

"So, a welcoming committee..."

"Yes, I think it would be wise."

"Is there any chance to resolve the problem peacefully?"

Voice softened with audible regret. "No, I doubt that."

"Then it's not wise for you to accompany him, Dam."

"I'll try to avoid that, but it can be difficult."

"Then you should... take precautions."

"Sure."

"I hope you realise what the stakes are."

"Of course."

"I don't want to be forced to hurt you, Dam, so please, take care."

"Thank you, you too."

"See you soon, then. Good night, Damian."

"Good night, Stan."

The line went dead, and Barlow leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting his body relax completely. Tomorrow was going to be quite an eventful day, and he needed to make certain he was fit to handle it.


	16. Mind Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note: starting from this chapter, Melford and Norton are going to have a dream world of their own, also denoted in italics.

_Their mentor was silent for a several moments, and John used that brief pause as an opportunity to strengthen his energy cocoon around Sherlock._

" _Thank you, John, but I don't think I'm in any kind of danger," the dark-haired man murmured, but nevertheless allowed his soulmate to stay literally wrapped around him._

' _Just so I'm sure that you wouldn't do something stupid, Sherlock,' John replied softly. 'I agree with you, the whole thing is... strange, and I think we ought to have some answers; but I also think that we should tread carefully.'_

" _Sometimes caution is not the best way of getting answers, John; I think you should've known that by now," Sherlock objected, his voice firm and brooking no argument._

' _Of course, how could I forget,' John chuckled quietly. 'With your habit of shocking people by screaming your questions at them? Bloody impossible.'_

" _I don't scream, John, I merely slightly raise my voice," Sherlock replied calmly._

' _Relatively speaking,' John commented, immediately sensing the surge of energy as Sherlock geared up for sarcastic response._

_But the response itself didn't happen, because at that exact moment Lestrade decided to remind both of them of his existence._

" _No offence, guys," the DI said carefully. "But as much as I'm thrilled by this whole turn of events, I'm not exactly sure that I want to know the details."_

_Sherlock immediately turned towards him, the stern expression softening slightly. "You're right, Greg, that's not your responsibility. Unfortunately, it all went too far, and we can't let you go now, so... My apologies."_

" _What do you mean?" Lestrade frowned._

" _This," Sherlock stretched his left arm and touched DI's forehead lightly. "Go to sleep, Greg."_

_Alarmed, Lestrade tried to pull away, shaking his head vigorously. But he never got the chance, because the dark-haired man reached out with his right arm, curling his fingers around the back of Greg's head. Securing the DI in place, Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his forehead, and a moment later the silver-haired man slipped into a deep sleep._

' _Nicely done, Sherlock,' a smirk was clearly heard in John's voice. 'What were you saying about taking Greg over without his consent?'_

" _It's not taking over, it's merely giving him a bit of rest," Sherlock contradicted. "And why am I speaking aloud, by the way?"_

' _Common courtesy?' John suggested, absentmindedly creating some sort of a shimmer in his own energy field and thereby causing Sherlock to emit a slight gasp of surprise._

' _John!' Sherlock admonished, his mental voice sounding a bit breathless. 'Don't do that!'_

' _Don't do what?' John enquired innocently, shimmering again._

' _That!' Sherlock barely managed, desperately trying to stifle a giggle._

' _You wanted to give Greg a bit of rest, so it's only fair if I give you an opportunity to unwind a little,' the ex-army medic murmured, continuing his light touches on his friend's skin._

_Sherlock simply hummed in reply and relaxed, closing his eyes and concentrating on how John's delicate touches felt. Encouraged, the older man expanded his caress, and Sherlock arched his back, moaning softly. It felt as if the entire world ceased to exist around him; only the awareness of John's gentle, soothing presence remained._

' _That's right, Sherlock,' John whispered, sending a pleasurable shiver down Sherlock's back. 'I've got you, you can relax now.'_

_Another moan escaped Sherlock's lips, and the dark-haired man stretched his body blissfully, shifting in John's embrace and putting his arms behind his head._

_They were so lost in each other that the voice of their mentor made them both jerk in surprise – mainly because said voice sounded entirely different now – more human and less stilted._

" _Well, everything up until now has been leading to this moment, I guess," the mentor said thoughtfully. "Although I'm a bit surprised that you hadn't started to question everything as soon as we met, Curious One."_

" _Let's just say that you have a talent to impress," Sherlock replied. "And if we are having heart-to-heart now, how about using my real name? Just to change the scenery for a bit, so to speak."_

" _Nice try, but no," came the firm reply. "My decision to answer your questions doesn't change anything. The rules remain firm."_

" _Fair point," Sherlock agreed. "Now about these questions – who are you, exactly?"_

" _I'm quite similar to what you have become, with only one difference: I knew about my gift since the day I was born, and therefore had enough time and opportunity to develop it to the fullest extent"._

" _Then why did you choose to guide me?" Sherlock enquired calmly, not at all surprised by their mentor's revelation. "Aren't you able to do everything yourself?"_

" _Sadly, no. Whatever height the level of my development is, it still doesn't match my adversary's," the mentor said honestly._

" _Um," John finally decided to join the conversation, causing Sherlock to wonder how exactly his soulmate managed to speak aloud in his current state. "Forgive my denseness, but who is this mysterious adversary?"_

" _A fairy reasonable question, Quiet One," the mentor said approvingly. "And no, he is not speaking aloud, Curious One. You're just assuming that he is, and your mind transforms the reality in order to suit your needs."_

' _It's true, Sherlock,' John confirmed. 'I'm still using telepathy.'_

" _Just take a moment to detect where his voice is coming from, Curious One. If you still your mind completely, you will be able to do it."_

' _I'm going to continue talking, Sherlock, to make it easier for you,' John said immediately. 'All you need to do is to listen carefully.'_

' _Thank you, John,' Sherlock said, tuning in to the sound of his soulmate's voice. John kept talking about something – Sherlock wasn't really paying attention to the topic – and a few moments later the detective realised that John's voice indeed sounded INSIDE his mind. It should've taken him less time, but simply hearing John's voice... It did funny things with Sherlock's attention, especially now, since they've become soulmates. The rational part of the detective's mind was quietly insisting that he should really be concerned with this fact; but on the other hand, Sherlock was quite aware that since the moment he miraculously came back from the dead his whole essence started to change, like he has been transformed by a virus. His merging with John had only intensified the process, but since it was vital for their newly established connection to function, Sherlock chose to simply resign himself to it._

' _Sherlock,' John called softly. 'You're slipping away. Come back to us.'_

' _Yes, John,' Sherlock shook his head slightly, focussing in his soulmate's words once again. 'You're right. I think I just assumed that you're TALKING to me, instead of thinking. Mainly because our... mentor... IS talking to us. Although I never bothered to think if it's really so.'_

" _I was wondering when exactly you were going to realise that," the voice praised. "Just ask yourself a simple question: is everything around you real?"_

" _Considering the fact that I'm actually sleeping, the answer is no."_

" _The next question then: where exactly are we?" the mentor pressed on, obviously determined to help Sherlock to see the point._

_The dark-haired man frowned a little, and then his whole face seemed to light up as the realisation dawned. "We're inside my mind, aren't we? So nobody is actually speaking, we're all using telepathy. More than that, we were doing it from the beginning."_

' _Brilliant as always,' the mentor said fondly. 'It took quite an effort to get you sidetracked. But I was sure that you would catch up eventually.'_

_As always, Sherlock swiftly made the connection. 'So it was planned all along.'_

' _Absolutely,' the mentor confirmed. 'And here's my confession: although I didn't strangle you to death, it was me who gave the order to kill you.'_

' _YOU DID WHAT?'_

_Now Sherlock got the perfect example of how his own attempt to warn John - by screaming at him telepathically - felt. John's mental voice seemed to be reverberating all the way through Sherlock's body and all his senses literally went offline for a few moments._

_When he regained control, John's frightened voice was calling his name over and over, and the energy cocoon around his body was woven so tightly that Sherlock couldn't breathe._

' _John,' he managed weakly. 'I'm okay, stop worrying. Whatever he did, it doesn't really matter now. I'm still alive, the rest is... insignificant.'_

' _But Sherlock...'_

' _John,' Sherlock interrupted, irritation sounding clear in his tone. 'Let's set some priorities, shall we? Now is not the time for emotions. First of all, it would be wonderful if you eased up your grip on me. It's a little difficult to talk while you're trying to crush me.'_

' _Oh my God!' John's panicked voice filled Sherlock's mind and the pressure was again transformed into a comforting embrace. 'Sherlock, I'm so sorry...'_

' _Not a problem, John,' Sherlock replied absentmindedly, and John felt with astonishment that the focus of his soulmate's attention shifted back to their mentor. 'Now let's get back to business. You killed me. Why?'_

' _As I was saying, my adversary is far stronger than me. But he needs to be stopped, and I'm unable to do it on my own,' the mentor paused. 'I was watching you for some time before... I was forced... You have a gift, but your rational mind would've never allowed you to use it, so I was forced to resort to extreme measures.'_

' _I see,' Sherlock said calmly. 'You obviously waited for the moment when I would disable my brother's surveillance equipment, and then made your move. But what after that? Even the perfect plan can go wrong, you know.'_

' _Of course,' their mentor agreed. 'And that's exactly why I stayed with you till the moment John got back from the clinic.'_

' _Now wait a minute!' John exclaimed, confusion clear in his voice. 'If you were in the house when I arrived, I should have seen you!'_

' _Oh, really?' the mentor answered with a smirk. 'I have a question for you, Quiet One: where did you go first when you arrived to your flat?'_

_John frowned a little. 'To my room. Why are you asking?'_

_The mentor continued, obviously paying no attention to John's question at all. 'You were such in a hurry to get home because you knew that the Curious One was in grave danger. And yet his room wasn't your primary destination. Can you explain why, Quiet One?'_

' _I keep my gun in the drawer of my bedside table,' John answered slowly. 'Sherlock was in danger, I needed to protect him...'_

' _Did you get the gun?' the mentor interrupted softly._

' _No..,' John paused. 'It was you, wasn't it? You tricked me!'_

' _The death of Curious One unlocked his gift,' the mentor continued quietly. 'I brought him back from the other side, and then put him in a timed stasis, similar to the one you are in now. After that all I had to do was to wait till you got to the flat and then send you scouting around. It gave me enough time to leave. But my connection with the Curious One remained, and I was able to guide him as he gradually discovered his abilities.'_

' _I suspected that this whole story about the higher powers was a fraud,' Sherlock said triumphantly. 'Everything in this world can be explained rationally.'_

_John chuckled. 'Sherlock, you have supernatural abilities. They are irrational by their nature.'_

' _I'm not talking about my abilities now, John,' Sherlock contradicted. 'I'm talking about the process of me acquiring them.'_

' _Whatever you say, Sherlock,' John agreed, causing Sherlock to emit an amused snort._

' _Backing out of the discussion already, Doctor Watson?' the younger man taunted. 'You always insisted that mankind is unable to fully perceive the mechanisms of the supernatural, let alone attempt to control them. Don't you think that our current situation contradicts such beliefs?'_

' _Every rule has its exceptions, Sherlock,' John replied. 'But I think we should postpone this discussion till later, when we take care of our mentor's problem, namely his mysterious adversary. Although it would be great to know finally WHO this adversary is.'_

' _His name was mentioned so often lately that I'm sure you know exactly who he is, John,' Sherlock remarked, his lips curving into a brief smile. 'Come on, search your mind; I'm certain you'll come up with the answer straight away.'_

_There was only one name that John could think of._

' _Norman Norton?'_

' _Precisely,' their mentor confirmed. 'Now, let's talk about your next task, Chosen Ones.'_

* * *

Norman Norton closed his laptop and sighed, leaning back against the pillows. It was dark outside, and the whole hotel had gotten quiet for the night; but Norton knew for a fact that no matter how strong his desire might be to fall asleep, he would never achieve his goal.

That damned insomnia was some sort of his personal curse: it was plaguing him since the moment he became psychic. From time to time, when the following day was going to be important, Norman was unable to sleep, doomed to spending the night wide awake.

He tried everything: from sleeping pills to numerous therapies, but nothing seemed to help.

Well, at least till the day his recent PA had started to practise meditation.

Norton wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to sneak into Melford's room that memorable night. He sensed some kind of a strange energetic pull from Damian, that's for granted; but apart from that he understood nothing.

So he sneaked into his PA's room, got caught in a strange energy tide and ended up sitting on Melford's bed with his fingertips pressed to the young man's temples.

Despite his concerns, Damian didn't wake up - he just stirred a little, emitting a contented sigh, and a moment later Norman felt his eyelids begin to droop. For about a minute he fruitlessly struggled to stay awake, but the drowsiness was rapidly pulling him in, and finally he gave up.

The strangest thing about that whole experience was that Norton perfectly remembered everything that happened with him in that dream state. More than that, he even discovered one curious detail about his PA – Melford turned out to be a damn good dream architect. That first time the younger man landed them in a perfect reconstruction of their first meeting, and Norman heard the unabridged story of Damian's life prior to their association – an abusive father, a mother who was to scared for her own life to protect her two children, a little sister who was killed by father during the one of his uncontrollable fits of anger; a daring escape, a homeless life, and finally, a lucky chance of meeting Norton.

The banker was so captivated by his newly-made discovery, that his night-time visits into Damian's room became quite regular. Most of them were spent in a process of silently enjoying the beautiful dreamscapes, created by his subordinate; but sometimes Melford took them somewhere familiar, to the places they visited during their business trips. On these occasions they talked – about everything and nothing in particular, recalling the events of their lives and sharing small details about themselves. But there's always been one small peculiarity – although Damian's dreamscapes were always recreated with precision, including various types of buildings that they had seen during their journeys, said buildings were always closed up: doors locked and windows closed with shutters.

Several times Norton tried to enquire about this strange fact, but all his questions were met with a slight smile and abrupt changing of topic, so finally the older man simply stopped asking.

There was another curious detail about the dream version of Melford – each time he wore a silver chain around his neck with a key on it. The chain was always the same – but the keys were different, and it took some time for the banker to clue in to the fact that those were actually the keys to the buildings.

Inspired by that revelation, the banker hastened to confirm it by bringing up the subject of the keys. Truth be told, he didn't expect to receive the answer to his question, so he was pleasantly surprised when Damian confirmed his guess. More than that, the younger man promised to relinquish the keys on the condition of Norton finding out the secret that was kept inside those buildings: something that had been buried deep in Melford's psyche, inaccessible and slowly drawing the PA towards self-destruction – well at least that's how Damian explained it.

Not an easy task, certainly, but Norman accepted it. It was a challenge, and Norman Norton absolutely couldn't resist a good challenge. Especially when Melford had given him a carte blanche in 'methods of extraction', as the PA himself phrased it.

Their agreement about the keys was commenced not long before Sherlock's assassination, and considering the fact that Norton was preoccupied with the task of tracking the younger Holmes down, the 'key problem' was temporarily put away. So far he only made one try without any results; Damian had reconstructed the clinic to which he was brought by the banker when they first met. They spent an hour in idle chat near the closed entrance of the clinic, and Norton, realising that he was getting nowhere this time, terminated the connection and pulled himself out of the dream state.

That seemed to happen ages ago, but right now, with his insomnia playing up and his thoughts going in circles in his head, he decided to give the 'key problem' another try.

He knew for sure that Melford had booked rooms with patios for both of them, and the night was quite warm, so instead of picking the lock of his PA's room the psychic took another route. He went out of his room, wandered over to Damian's patio and, as expected, he found the sliding door half-open. Taking off his shoes, he carefully stepped inside the room and made his way to Melford's bed. His PA was sound asleep, curled up and laying on his right side, and it took a bit of manoeuvring for Norman to settle comfortably on the edge of the bed. Desired position achieved, he took a deep breath, placed his fingertips on Damian's temple and closed his eyes.

_For a moment, there was nothing – only white light everywhere, so bright that Norton was forced to squeeze his eyes shut. But a moment later he felt the energy field around himself starting to shift and transform, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself standing at the foot of the stone stairs, leading towards a beautiful house on the top of a cliff. He recognised it immediately – it was a small villa where they spent a month during their business trip to France a year ago._

_The stairs ended near the wrought iron gate, and when Norton looked up towards it, he saw a familiar figure waiving to him. The banker waved back, hummed quietly and began his ascent..._


	17. Hard Choices

_Six_ _flights of stone stairs separated Norton from the house and that gave him plenty of time to wonder about Melford's reason for choosing this exact place. Not that he had any problems with accepting his PA's decision – well, maybe a few, but his hesitation was rather connected with the younger man himself._

_The thing was: all places that they had visited during these years had bits and pieces of history connected with each and every one of them; as for this particular villa – its story was quite a disturbing one._

_That business trip to France turned out to be a complete disaster – it was the first time that Mycroft Holmes' interference turned Norman's thought-out plans to dust. There even was an amateurish assassination attempt, after which Norton completely lost it. Good thing that the house was situated in a secluded place and Damian tolerated his boss' eccentricity with an unusual understanding. Considering that he found himself on the receiving end of the banker's blind fury, Norton was pleasantly surprised that his PA hadn't abandoned him like his predecessors have done._

_But all these memories still failed to bring Norman close to a revelation about his PA's agenda in this particular dream, so finally he shut this train of thoughts and just continued climbing the stairs. He could already clearly see Melford leaning against the gate, his hands crossed on his chest and his head tilted slightly to the right. The banker picked up speed, climbed the rest of the steps within a few moments, and finally stopped in front of his PA, taking in his appearance._

_Damian was dressed in light-coloured linen trousers and a white shirt, open at the collar. There was the familiar silver chain with the key around his neck – and a disturbingly looking "necklace" of finger-shaped bruises just above it._

" _Sir," Melford said shortly, turning around and pushing the gate open for his boss._

" _Damian," the psychic acknowledged, passing the gate and strolling towards the area at the edge of the cliff, where a small pavilion was situated. His PA quietly followed him there, picking a tray with refreshing drinks on his way – orange juice and a bottle of sparkling mineral water; Norton's favourites. The banker settled comfortably into a rattan chair and, after watching Melford pour mineral water into a tall glass, reached out and took it. "Why this place?"_

" _It was memorable for me," Damian settled in the opposite chair and shrugged his shoulders. "And it's beautiful here"._

_Norman's lips twitched. "Not particularly pleasant memories, if I recall correctly"._

" _Maybe, but they are still a part of my life, no matter how bad or good they were," Melford held his gaze steadily, his expression betraying nothing._

_This was the other side of Damian's personality that the banker respected – the ability to handle everything without batting an eyelid. Norton's mind immediately took a trip down memory lane, and he found himself in the living room of this exact villa, only one year back._

* * *

_It was the day he lost the game the first time – the beautifully crafted, intricate political game against the man, who, according to his own words, 'occupied a minor position in the British government'. Of course, Mycroft Holmes had interfered with Norman's affairs before – from time to time he caused the psychic some troubles, but this time – this time the damage was quite tangible. And to make matters worse, the politician was there to witness Norton's fall from grace._

_Norton managed to keep a straight face all the way through his ordeal. Having met with the older Holmes face to face for the first time, the psychic immediately sensed some strange traces of fluctuating energy behind the powerful force of Mycroft's personality – not the ones of this man, but somebody else's – a relative, perhaps? The traces were unusual, and Norman briefly wondered where they came from, before the dark force of anger started to uncoil and spread throughout his whole being, overwhelming his senses and flooding his mind with the irresistible urge of destruction. So he acknowledged his defeat and left the battlefield in dignified manner; but on the way to the villa a red mist obscured his vision, and all thoughts in his head were revolving around the ways of making his PA suffer greatly for Norton's demise._

_Because his faithful PA's main fault was, as Norton's clouded mind formulated it, that the young man managed to fall ill with some strange ailment, and spent an entire week in bed, delirious with fever and fighting for each breath._

_And to make matters even worse, en route to their temporary lodgings an unindentified black car made an unsucсessful attempt at pushing Norton's sedan off the mountain road.  
_

_No wonder that Norton's rage_ _was at critical level_ _when he finally returned to the villa that evening, and the sight of the exhausted Damian, who stumbled into the living room to greet him - while barely holding himself up - only infuriated the banker more. And that was exactly when Norton snapped._

_He single-mindedly backed Melford into a corner, body-slammed him against the wall and then reached out to wrap his hands around the younger man's throat._

_Damian shivered, blinked, and locked his eyes with Norman's own._

_Time stopped._

_There was no fear in the dark eyes – only compassion and total understanding. Melford realised perfectly what his boss was about to do, and he was going to let him do it._

_The younger man took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tipped his head back, giving Norton better access to his throat._

_Still driven by sheer animalistic force, but a bit surprised by his prey's reaction, the banker clamped his hands around the vulnerable neck, and hesitated for a moment._

' _Go on, just do it,' a quiet voice whispered in his mind. 'He wants it. He won't fight. Set him free'._

_And Norman obeyed, starting to squeeze the life out of his unresisting assistant._

_It felt good. No, better than good, good was too bleak for all those feelings he was experiencing right now. It felt phenomenal – Damian's fingers around his wrists, weakly trying to tear his hands away, Damian's body writhing helplessly against him, Damian's wheezing breath as he struggled to put up some fight, as if he knew that Norton will be disappointed if he gave up so soon._

_But that wasn't the best part. Oh no, not the best part at all._

_The crowning moment of this little incident came when Melford started to slip away. Somewhere along the way they both slid to the floor, and just before Damian was ready to leave this world, Norman unexpectedly let him go, pulled away and collapsed face down beside him._

_Dazed from the oxygen deprivation, Melford instinctively took one shuddering breath, then another. The simple act of breathing suddenly became the most wonderful discovery in all Damian's life. His mind was absolutely blank, and he simply let his body take charge, observing every passing second with keen curiosity. His life energy was reclaiming his body, invigorating every cell, balancing and regenerating him. And then Norman, still laying prone near him, carefully reached out and gripped his shoulder, humming quietly._

_The younger man's eyes widened. "Sir?" he croaked, too weak to put up any sort of resistance and totally unsure if it would be necessary._

_The banker chuckled – a rich and unexpectedly pleasant sound. "There's no need to be afraid, my dear Damian. You're completely safe now. Welcome back. And sorry for this… outburst. I'm afraid I wasn't exactly myself these last few hours"._

" _Perfectly… understandable, sir", Melford wheezed out. "This isn't… the best…"_

_Norton tightened his grip on his PA's shoulder. "Too many words, mister Melford. I just attempted to kill you – doesn't it strike you as odd that we're having this conversation now?"_

_Damian smiled. "Not really, sir"._

" _Good," the psychic pulled his hand away from Melford's shoulder, rolled onto his side and raised himself up from the floor. "Then I strongly suggest for you to return to your bed. No objections."_

" _But, sir…"_

" _Damian," Norman said warningly, bending down to pull his assistant to his feet. "No objections, and this topic is closed. Are we clear on that?"_

" _Yes, sir"._

" _Good", Norman slipped his arm around the younger man's shoulders, and escorted him to the bedroom…_

* * *

" _We should've talked about that", Melford's voice pulled Norton back from his memories. "Here, a year ago – we should've discussed this"._

_The banker took a sip from his glass. "For what purpose?"_

" _I just wanted to ask one question, sir", Damian said quietly, but firmly. "How did it feel, when you were trying to kill me?"_

_Norman narrowed his eyes and took another sip, searching the younger man's face intently. "Why does that interest you?"_

_Melford lowered his head and reached with his left hand towards the silver chain, starting to weave it between his fingers. "When I was ready to give up completely, when I was about to die, you… I felt… something, and immediately after that, you stopped. As if it was your purpose – bring me to the edge and give me something… It still remains somewhere inside my mind, but no matter how hard I try, I can't detect what is it, or where it is. So I was hoping that if you remember how all that felt, perhaps then you can help me to identify…"_

_Norton's gaze was immediately drawn to the silver key his PA now was absentmindedly playing with. So close, so easy to reach, and besides, Damian gave him a carte blanche… The psychic mentally shook himself and finished his water in a few gulps, placing a glass on the table with unnecessary force and an unpleasant thud. Melford, upon hearing the sharp sound, raised his head and looked at his boss in confusion._

" _Not exactly a pleasant event to remember, my dear Damian", Norman pointed out, his alert eyes seemingly trying to x-ray his assistant's thoughts. "But if you insist…"_

" _I'm not, sir", Melford answered promptly. "I was just asking about the possibility. You don't have to do this"._

_Norton's attention was once again focused on the key, and Damian, noticing this, immediately tucked the chain back underneath his shirt. Then, his expression neutral, he reached for his own glass of juice and leaned back in his chair._

" _Sorry, sir, I shouldn't have asked," his voice was soft. "And here's another thing: although I DID mention that you can use ANY methods to get the key, I would've preferred them not to be physical ones"._

" _Reasonable," the banker agreed…_

And in the next second found himself back in Melford's hotel room, with his PA's sleep-dulled eyes staring at him enquiringly. The younger man cleared his throat.

"Sir?" he asked uncertainly.

Norton pulled back slightly and folded his arms on his chest. It was time to make this whole situation clear once and for all.

* * *

Considering the fact that they all were in the same castle – however big it might be – Stanley Barlow hadn't thought that finding Mycroft Holmes was going to be such a complicated task.

Apparently, he had been wrong.

First of all, he checked the rooms with which he was already familiar – and, predictably, found them empty.

The next logical step was to try and find anyone from the servants' crew – seemingly an easy task, but right now even that proved to be verging on impossible. He tried pressing the intercoms in a few rooms he had gone through during his quest, but to no avail.

There were two possible solutions for him now: search each and every room in the castle, or just give up and wait till Mycroft would decide to make an appearance. Due to his upbringing, Stanley considered the first variant to be inappropriate, and was leaning towards the second one, when the aforementioned last scenario suddenly came true and the older Holmes appeared in front of the sandy-haired doctor seemingly out of thin air.

Startled, Barlow took an involuntary step back, his heart skipping a beat. But a moment later he managed to regain his composure and locked gazes with the politician.

"Mister Holmes, I was looking for you," he said firmly. "There's something we need to discuss. I have new information about Norman Norton's arrival".

Mycroft tilted his head slightly to the right, giving the physician a thorough once-over. "And you obtained this information during the phone call you have recently received, I presume?"

Stanley's eyes widened. "Yes, but… How could you…"

The politician simply turned his head to the left and looked up. Stanley followed the direction of his gaze to the security camera near the ceiling.

"Surveillance," the elder Holmes said calmly. "Security precautions".

For the next few moments Barlow just opened and closed his mouth silently, his face a picture of a righteous indignation.

"You were… spying on us?" he finally blurted out. "That's…"

The corners of Mycroft's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, and there was a tingle of sarcasm in his voice as he interrupted the spluttering doctor.

"Quite a statement for the man who had a hidden agenda since the beginning", the politician commented, turning away and strolling down the corridor. "And before you ask – yes, I'm perfectly able to prove it. If you would be so kind to follow me, we could discuss this in a more suitable setting".

Knowing perfectly that Mycroft Holmes had the upper hand in this situation, Stanley had no other choice but to agree, so, sighing deeply, he started to follow.

The politician led him down to the ground floor, and then into a small corridor with a dead-end. They stopped in front of a wood-panelled wall, and Barlow was about to enquire if this was the promised suitable setting, when the elder Holmes reached to the left and pressed the flower pattern on one of the panels. There was a soft 'click', then a hiss, and the panel in front of them slid deeper into the wall, then moved aside, revealing a staircase leading down into the basement.

Upon seeing all that, Stanley just couldn't help himself, and turned to look at the older Holmes, grinning mischievously. "Leading me straight into a dungeon, sir?"

Mycroft reacted at his remark with a reserved smile. "Why, do I have a reason to?"

The sand-haired doctor shrugged his shoulders, obviously deciding not to let his vis-à-vis to intimidate him so easily. "I'm sure you already know the answer to this question, Mister Holmes".

"Naturally, I do, but I prefer to hear your version of events. After I show you some documents and video materials first, of course", Mycroft said, his voice sounding almost good-naturedly. "And just so we're clear – I'm not here to accuse you, I just want to know all the details so I can formulate a strategy".

"Fair play, sir", Barlow answered simply, and then followed the elder Holmes downstairs.

* * *

' _OUR next task?' John interrupted in astonishment. 'Excuse me, but you seem to be forgetting one TINY detail here. I don't think there's going to be 'us' – as in, The Curious One and me – while I have this bloody thing in my head chewing merrily at my brain'._

' _Well, considering that you're handling our conversation right now without any problems, I don't think there are going to be any difficulties', the mentor countered. 'And let's not forget that your physical body is just a part of your personality'._

' _Yeah, so? We're all dreaming right now, and that involves mainly our minds, not our bodies. But if we're talking about the upcoming confrontation with Norman Norton – I seriously doubt that our ability to exist in the dream world would aid us in defeating him', John pointed out sceptically, then paused for a moment. 'Although in Sherlock's case...'_

' _Sorry, John, but he forbade me to use my abilities to harm anyone', Sherlock interrupted. 'But then again, at that moment I had just began to explore my gift, so maybe that veto was just a precaution. Norman Norton is a formidable adversary, and for people like him the end always justifies the means; we definitely need out hands free if we're going to play in his territory'._

' _I was just getting to this', their mentor replied with patience. 'Do you know anything about the concept of a 'lifeboat'?'_

' _Yes, of course', John confirmed. 'But what does that have to do…'_

' _I was referring to a person, not to a life-saving equipment', the mentor elaborated._

' _What do you mean?' both soulmates thought in unison, and then Sherlock chuckled in response to John's surprised shimmer._

_Their mentor chose not to pay attention to this little incident, calmly continuing to expand on his previous statement. 'The term 'lifeboat' usually refers to a person, who carries not only their consciousness, but also serves as a vessel for someone else's', he paused, waiting for the information to register within his charge's minds, but his words were met with only a stunned silence. 'Basically it means two people in one body, and I think that it's a perfect solution for our situation'._

_Sherlock managed to recover first. 'So let me get this straight. Because of your inability to cure John, you propose for him to take somebody over?'_

' _Exactly', the mentor confirmed with frightening ease._

' _Excuse me?' John's intonation was boarding on hysterical, and Sherlock cringed involuntarily. 'I'm still here!'_

' _For now – yes', the mentor confirmed. 'But we need to decide on our future course of actions; otherwise I won't be able to guarantee the continuation of your existence, I'm afraid'._

_The detective could swear that he felt the whole being of his soulmate sort of shrink in defeat. 'Okay, I'm listening'._

' _Actually, I would prefer to include our one and only evident candidate into this conversation', the mentor remarked, causing Sherlock to frown slightly. 'And yes, Curious One, your assumption is completely correct'._

' _But I wasn't exactly…' Sherlock began, still frowning, but a moment later his eyes narrowed. 'Wait a minute, are you telling me that you knew what I was about to think?'_

' _Of course'._

' _Oh, great. And if Norton is far stronger than you, don't you think that it makes the task of defeating him nearly impossible?'_

' _Without the proper preparation – obviously yes'._

' _Then how…'_

' _Ahem!' John finally decided that he had enough cryptic talks for now. 'Alright, can ANYBODY tell me what the hell are you talking about?'_

_The focus of Sherlock's attention was switched back to him in an instant. 'Of course, John, in a moment. But let me wake up Lestrade first, we have a serious decision to make'._


	18. Daring Plans

_When Greg Lestrade was married, his wife once decided to wake him up by tickling him._

_Actually, Greg prefers not to mention that occasion, if it's possible. Because what had started as an innocent joke became an issue for marriage counselling frighteningly quickly and he spent a month trying to earn Jenny's forgiveness._ _The unexpected crisis was effectively dealt with in the end; but, unfortunately, it became the starting point for a whole bunch of events which led to Greg's divorce._

_The point is – the DI absolutely hates tickling. Always did, always does, and always will. And Sherlock, after becoming telepathic, really should have bothered to find about that small detail._

_Which, of course, he didn't._

_More than that, he decided to use his new invention – mental tickling. Well, at least that's what it felt like for Greg._

_It started with a murmur in his head, and he stirred slightly, trying to hold on to the tendrils of sleep. It was good in here – warm, comfy, safe - even if the beginning of his slumber was literally forced upon him by Sherlock. Greg tried to burrow deeper and block the unwanted intrusion, but the murmur simply progressed into a hissing whisper._

' _Lessstrade…'_

_It sounded like a snake's hiss and ocean surf combined, and Greg frowned, feeling as a strange tingling sensation started to spread through his brain. It wasn't unpleasant, though, and Lestrade found himself carried into awareness by a gentle wave, which flowed around, finally depositing him back on the stone floor of the same cave where Sherlock previously had put him to sleep._

_But no matter how pleasant Lestrade's condition was, it didn't stop him from making an automated attempt at strangling Sherlock for causing it. The dark-haired man took it with a surprising calm, grabbing Greg's hands and firmly shoving him off. The DI hit the floor quite painfully and that impact seemed to snap him out of his enraged state. Blinking in confusion, he looked around._

' _Welcome back, Greg,' John's soothing voice sounded in his mind. 'How are you feeling?'_

' _Strange,' Lestrade's brain still buzzed with the energy that Sherlock – Greg had no doubts about it now –pumped into him. 'Where are we?'_

_It took him almost a minute to realise that he hadn't actually uttered a word. 'Oh shit'._

' _Don't worry, it's not permanent,' John hastened to reassure him. 'We are all still dreaming. Although…'_

' _John,' Sherlock's voice interrupted, and Lestrade immediately turned his head towards the younger man. 'Let's give our mentor a chance to explain everything, shall we?'_

' _Not before I hear YOUR explanation,' the DI objected firmly. 'What the hell have you just done with me?'_

' _A new experiment,' the dark-haired man said simply. 'The mental tickling'._

' _An experiment,' Greg echoed. 'My entire life is being turned upside down, and you're doing experiments. Bloody hilarious!'_

' _Greg, don't,' John's voice cut in, full of unexpected authority. 'Now's not the time for lectures. We need to find a solution.'_

' _Solution for what?' Lestrade enquired sharply, still simmering._

' _John's situation,' Sherlock said shortly. 'With Norton about to pay us a visit, we need to map out our defence plan. Including the solution to John's problem.'_

' _Which is?' Lestrade prompted, his irritation instantly replaced with a keen interest._

' _A lifeboat,' the dark-haired man said simply, causing the DI to roll his eyes in exasperation._

' _Which is?' he repeated, making a 'go on' motion with his hand._

' _Not for me to explain,' Sherlock retorted, raising an eyebrow at Lestrade's barely suppressed huff._

' _Sherlock,' there was a clear warning in John's voice, and the detective raised his arms in surrender._

' _I just answered his questions, John', Sherlock pointed out._

' _No, you didn't'._

' _I DID. It's not my fault he couldn't understand me', Sherlock objected. 'But that's irrelevant, John, because now it's time to let our mentor state his point'._

_John, who at this point decided to become visible again, appeared beside Sherlock and sat down. 'Good idea'._

_Lestrade, finally sensing an opportunity to put a word in, immediately used it. 'And your mentor would be…'_

' _Me', another voice joined their conversation. 'Greetings, Detective Inspector'._

_The new voice, in contrast to Sherlock and John's, seemed to have an air of tranquillity and wisdom about it, and Lestrade, despite his usual guarded attitude towards strangers, found himself tuning in to the captivating sounds. 'Lose the title. Just call me Greg'._

' _A generous offer, but I must decline', the mentor replied. 'Your name has its power, Detective Inspector, and considering the situation that we're in, it would be unwise to give our adversary such an advantage'._

_Having known Sherlock for several years, Lestrade could easily recognise a verbal brush-off when he heard one. And the DI hated verbal brush-offs as much as he hated tickling. 'That's very interesting, mate, but you ought to elaborate on that statement. Preferably using an understandable language, if you wouldn't mind'._

_There was an amused chuckle from John, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his soulmate._

' _Sorry', the blond-haired man made not-so-successful effort of keeping a straight face. 'It's just… Seems like I now have an ally on my side. Now you'll have to explain everything without using big words'._

_Sherlock's stare turned positively icy. 'I hope you're not about to start our usual debate, John, because right now it would be extremely inappropriate'._

' _Of course not, Sherlock', John shrugged. 'I'm just saying…'_

' _If you are still interested in my explanation, Detective Inspector', the mentor interrupted firmly, not at all sounding put out by Sherlock and John's verbal sparring, 'then it's this: each and every word has a frequency. In case of a personal name it's unique; ranks are usually more common. Of course, taking into account that Norman Norton already knows about this place, hiding your name probably won't be doing us any good…'_

' _Ah, about that', John piped in, unable to resist the urge to ask. 'How exactly did he find that out?'_

' _Brain-eating thing, John', Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 'It was created as a beacon, which had a fail-safe'._

_'Which brings us back to the topic', the mentor again took over the conversation. 'The Curious One had already mentioned the lifeboat: now I shall endeavour to explain. The concept of a lifeboat means that one person willingly becomes a vessel for the consciousness of another', the voice paused, obviously waiting for Greg's reaction, and he didn't have to wait long._

' _But it's impossible!' Greg exclaimed. 'And besides, who would want to do that?'_

' _Supernatural abilities are considered to be improbable by some people; yet they still exist', the mentor replied softly. 'As for willingness – it's for the future vessel to decide. There are many points to consider, but the main one is that while he's carrying another consciousness, his own needed to be put in a dormant state in order to avoid the destruction of his personality'._

_Lestrade turned toward John's projection, regarding it thoughtfully. The doctor held his gaze without blinking, his usually expressive face betraying nothing but calm resignation. 'So you need me to… share… myself with you?'_

' _I'm not asking you to, Greg', the ex-army medic replied quietly. 'It's for you to decide. But our situation appears to be critical, and Sherlock won't be able to take Norton on his own, he needs our help. And if you decide to help me, I promise to withdraw as soon as Norman Norton is dealt with'._

_Lestrade gave an exasperated huff. 'I hope you aren't seriously thinking that I'm going to throw you out of my body and my mind the moment Norton won't be a threat anymore. If I'm in, I'm in till the end'._

_John blinked. 'Are you saying…?'_

' _You sacrificed your life for me without a second thought. It's the least I can do to return the favour, John'._

' _It's settled, then!' Sherlock concluded, clapping his hands in glee and thereby breaking the almost trans-like state both men seemed to have fallen into. 'Now let's discuss specifics, shall we?'_

_John groaned in despair. 'Sherlock…'_

_The dark-haired man cocked an enquiring eyebrow. 'Problem, John?'_

' _As a matter of fact, yes. I'm having a definite problem with you being your bloody annoying self, as per usual. By saying what he said, Greg didn't mean…'_

' _That's where you're wrong, John', the DI interrupted. 'The thing is, I DID. Definitely'._

_The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched up, forming a satisfied grin. 'Q.E.D., John'._

_The blond man rolled his eyes as Lestrade looked at him in confusion. 'I'm sorry, what?'_

' _It's Latin, Greg', the doctor explained. 'Quod erat demonstrandum. The meaning is 'which was to be demonstrated'. He's being an insufferable git again. But are YOU serious?'_

' _Have I ever lied to you?' Lestrade said simply and John shook his head. 'Well, then'._

_Sherlock's other eyebrow joined the first in an expression that clearly said 'told you so'. John simply shrugged as Greg looked around the cave, his face set in determination._

' _All right. Tell me what I need to do'._

* * *

At the bottom of the stair Mycroft stopped in front of a door with an electronic lock, and, reaching into his breast pocket, produced a pass card.

"You have an electronically locked door in the basement of your OWN castle?" Barlow uttered in disbelief.

"One can never be too cautious, Doctor Barlow", the politician replied, swiping the card through the reader and punching in the code. There was a soft beep, and the door started to open. "Follow me, please".

But Barlow hesitated for a moment. "May I ask what's behind this door, sir?"

Mycroft huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes in a manner similar to his younger brother's. "There's no need to be so paranoid, doctor. As I mentioned already, I'm not going to torture you – we just going to talk. And if you're so curious, I can give you a quick tour of our basement – it won't take much time".

Not waiting for an answer, he pushed the door fully open and stepped into the brightly lit corridor. Stanley shifted from one foot to the other, biting his lip anxiously, then gathered his courage and joined Mycroft, who was waiting for him near the first door on the left.

"As you can see, there aren't many rooms here", the older Holmes began. "Only five, in fact. Three of them are equipped for medical purposes, the forth is used as the command centre and the fifth…" he paused. "Well, basically it's a padded cell".

Barlow chose not to say anything, but his eyebrows rose slightly.

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Let's just say that our family has… quite an unusual history, Doctor Barlow."

"Stanley, please", Barlow said automatically.

Mycroft regarded him with an inquisitive stare for a few moments, then gave a short nod. "Very well, Stanley", he placed his hand on the door handle, and opened the door. "So, this is the operating theatre, fully equipped for any type of emergency. Feel free to take a look around".

Barlow reluctantly crossed the threshold, and froze on the spot, his mouth falling open in disbelief. For him, this room was a paradise – filled with ultramodern equipment for every imaginable emergency situation – from treating a minor wound to complicated neurosurgery.

Mycroft, who stepped into the room after him, now stood beside him, watching his shell-shocked expression in amusement. "I'm a specialist, Stanley. If I decide to do something, the ultimate result should be nothing but perfection".

The politician's voice snapped the doctor back to reality, and he turned to face him with a small smile tugging at his lips. "It figures, Mister Holmes. And, considering our current situation, this room is going to come very handy. Do you also have an intensive care unit around here?"

The older Holmes nodded his head with obvious approval. "Words of a true professional, Doctor Barlow, how… commendable. The room that you are asking about is the third on the left. And the second one is, accordingly, a doctors' lounge. You'll have an opportunity to inspect them later – but now we have a matter of grave importance to discuss".

"Sure", Stanley pivoted on his heels sharply. "Where to?"

"The second room on the right side of the corridor. It's the command centre which I already told you about. Actually, it might even be considered as the control centre – it has an additional landline which cannot be traced and various multi-purpose systems as well. All the data from the security cameras in the castle is streamed and recorded there. Besides that, I have an extensive database, one particular CCTV record from which you are going to watch. It covers the information you were going to impart to me, and if you have any questions after watching it, I will be ready to discuss them".

Despite being politely phrased, Mycroft's words definitely couldn't be considered as an offer – it was a 100 percent order. And Barlow was smart enough to realise that right now he should obey without demur.

"The second room on the right", he repeated, nodding in acknowledgment. "Would you mind leading the way, sir?"

The politician tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "There's no need to be so obliging, Stanley. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding it. I'll be there shortly – just need to check something first".

With that, Mycroft strode out of the room, leaving Stanley staring after him in confusion. But the older Holmes' instruction left no place for doubt, so he shook his head and headed out, crossing the corridor and pulling the second door on the right open.

Mycroft didn't exaggerate – the room was furnished with state-of-the-art equipment. In the centre of the room was a mahogany conference table with comfortable leather chairs, and Barlow, bearing in mind Mycroft's words, took the first seat on the left, closer to a big plasma screen on the wall, and, folding his hands on the table, pondered over the information that he was going to recount to Mycroft Holmes. The news about surveillance was a bit unsettling – but on the other hand, the politician obviously knew more than he showed to others. The question was, how much more?

His musings we interrupted by the older Holmes himself, who stepped into the room, carrying a folder and a Memory stick. Noticing Stanley already sitting at the table, he nodded in approval and, crossing the room towards the workstation in the far corner, powered it up. The plasma screen instantly came to life, showing a greeting message, which was quickly replaced by the password enquiry. Mycroft pressed eight keys on the keyboard in quick succession, and then inserted the Memory stick into the corresponding slot. The screen showed a list of files, and the politician turned towards Barlow, flashing him a polite smile.

Stanley cleared his throat. "Mister Holmes, as I already said, I have vital information concerning Norman Norton's arrival".

"I'm aware of that, Stanley", the older Holmes took a remote from the shelf on the right of the workstation and, walking confidently to the table, sat down in the chair across of Barlow, placing the folder on the table. "But before we discuss it, there's a CCTV recording that I need you to see. It concerns two persons that you're already familiar with, and can definitely shed some light on the situation we're currently in".

"I'm all eyes and ears, sir", the sandy-haired doctor replied, causing the corners of Mycroft's mouth twitch into an amused half-smile.

"Well, in that case we shouldn't waste any precious time, should we?" the politician pressed a button on the remote, and the light in the room dimmed slowly. Another button – and a picture appeared on the screen, but Mycroft paused the video. "You need to watch carefully, Stanley, and after that you can ask any questions you like".

Barlow nodded and focused his eyes on the screen. Satisfied with the reaction, the older Holmes pressed "Play" and prepared himself for once again going through one vitally important meeting that happened roughly two years ago...

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were regarding him with mild disbelief.

"So let me see if I understood you correctly, dear brother", the dark-haired man said, drawling his words almost lazily. "Basically you are saying that you are going to resort to… dubious methods in dealing with your recently arisen problem?"

"You should know already that there's no such thing as 'dubious methods' for me, Sherlock", Mycroft looked at his younger brother impassively. "My methods can be effective or ineffective. And for them to remain effective, I need to consider all possibilities, whatever they are".

"I'm aware of that, Mycroft," Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the left. "I'm just slightly surprised that you allowed our mysterious guest to keep his identity hidden". A ghost of smile tugged at his older brother's lips, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh, I see. He remains incognito only for me".

"It's for your own safety, Sherlock. And partly to ensure the success of our joint operation. In this case, the lesser you know, the more natural your behaviour is going to be".

Sherlock snorted. "Well, I seriously doubt that you can judge what my behaviour is going to be, if you're planning to kill me first for the aforementioned success of your operation".

Their mysterious visitor, hidden in the shadows in the corner of the room, decided to join the conversation. "It will be perfectly safe and controlled, Mister Holmes", his voice, albeit being soft and quiet, gave an impression of undeniable strength and steadiness. "You have nothing to worry about, I assure you".

Sherlock turned his head and threw a pointed glare in the direction of the darkened corner. "May I enquire how exactly are you going to assure that? No, wait, don't answer that. There's an obvious reason why are you now hiding in the shadows, isn't there?"

"Partially", their guest confirmed. "But mostly because of one side effect of the procedure. Deliberate side effect".

"Which is?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Selective amnesia", the guest said simply, rendering the detective speechless for a several minutes.

But despite Sherlock's shocked state, his brain continued to work, joining the dots and putting the pieces together, and soon he gracefully rose from the chair, straightening his suit jacket with an air of nonchalance. "Are we done?"

A shadow of annoyance crossed Mycroft's face. "Sherlock…"

The younger Holmes fixed him with a cold glare. "You're getting slow on the uptake, dear brother. I'm willing to participate in your venture. Text me the details. And excuse me, but now I have a case to solve", with that, he picked up his coat and scarf from the nearest chair and left the room with the rapid gait.

"Well, that went surprisingly easy", the voice commented, and its owner emerged from the shadows: a young man with the long dark hair pulled in a ponytail. He was casually dressed in denim, and carried a backpack over his shoulder. Dropping it onto the chair, from which Sherlock took his coat, the guest strolled to the armchair across of Mycroft's and sat down, crossing his legs.

"I should advise you not to be so eager in believing in Sherlock's act", Mycroft observed his guest with slight amusement. "He can be quite changeable in his intentions. Only time will tell whether we'd be successful, so for now – let us concentrate on the matters at hand, Mister Melford".

Damian Melford answered with a polite smile. "Of course, Mister Holmes".


	19. Coming Undone

_The mentor was silent for a few moments, then he spoke with a clear note of respect in his voice. 'You're a very courageous human being, Detective Inspector.'_

_Lestrade waved his hand in dismissal. 'It's part of my job, nothing worth mentioning. And besides, John and I have quite a history of saving each other, so it's like a part of the bargain already. Just cut the chase and tell me what to do.'_

_The mentor hummed in clear appreciation, and the gust of sudden wind ruffled the DI's hair. 'Actually, your role in the process is going to be rather simple: you just need to open your mind and allow the Quiet One to nestle within. The Curious One will be guiding him – with my help, of course. I make sure the process will be as quick and smooth as possible.'_

_Lestrade shrugged his shoulders in reply. 'No problem. We're going to do it right here?'_

_'Unfortunately, no,' the change in the mentor's tone was barely noticeable, but not for Lestrade. The DI detected it right away, and a slight frown creased his forehead._

_'Correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like there's something you're not telling me,' the silver-haired man prompted carefully, trying his best to sound nonchalant. But for Sherlock and John his distress was as evident as if he was broadcasting it, so they unconsciously moved closer to him; the detective even risked to place a hand on Greg's shoulder. Lestrade shot him an amused glance but nevertheless reached up and covered Sherlock's hand with his own, curling his fingers around the younger man's._

_'You're right, there's one condition,' the mentor said simply. 'In order for the transfer to be successful, you need to be in a state of clinical death.'_

_For nearly a minute, nobody moved; then the DI let out a shuddering breath. 'Okay, that's… not exactly a process I would've called simple…'_

_John, who was equally shocked by their mentor's words, chose that moment to pipe in. 'As I already mentioned, I don't want to pressure you into anything, Greg. So you have the right to back out of the bargain. Hell, if somebody told me something like that, I would've run for cover VERY fast.'_

_Not saying a word, Lestrade turned his head and locked gazes with John, forcing him to shift uncomfortably and then avert his eyes._

_The corners of Greg's lips quirked up in a smile. 'Well, in case of SOMEBODY, I would've run too, John. But if I'm not mistaken, we happen to be friends, and friends help each other, you know.'_

_The doctor answered with a smile of his own and risked rising his eyes. 'You're right, Greg, they do.'_

_The DI, letting Sherlock's hand go, spread his arms wide. 'Well, then.'_

_Sherlock, using this moment to pull his hand away, clapped his hands, causing both men to jerk in surprise. 'Excellent! Now that we've established you both ready to proceed, it's time to discuss the practical aspects. Shall we?'_

_Lestrade, who managed to pull himself together first, rolled his eyes. 'Good to know you're so eager to kill me, Sherlock.'_

_'Actually…' the detective began, but after a pointed look from John wisely decided to shut up._

_'Disregarding the Curious One's tendency to be dramatic..,' the mentor cut in, but was immediately interrupted by sniggers from Greg and John, which were followed by Sherlock's irritated huff; pointedly waiting it out, he continued as if nothing had happened, '… I totally agree with the point he's trying to make,' this time a derisive snort and a dual groan, 'For a successful transfer, a medical facility would be advisable.'_

_'Not a problem,' Sherlock said cheerfully, and, getting two equally confused looks in return, decided to elaborate. 'We have something like that in the basement. Mycroft had always been taking the wellbeing of the Holmes' family very seriously, and had two rooms equipped for the medical purposes. I think they will suffice.'_

_Hearing this, John perked up, his eyes sparkling with excitement. 'You didn't tell me about this before, Sherlock.'_

_The younger man's lips curved into mischievous smile. 'As I recall, we weren't so keen on sightseeing those few days,' Sherlock's mental voice acquired purring undertones, which sent a pleasant shiver down Lestrade's spine and caused John to blush in embarrassment. Seeing his soulmate's reaction, the detective started to grin, but a sudden shadow of concern on John's face caused his gleeful expression to transform into a frown. 'John, what's the matter?'_

_The doctor shook his head. 'Nothing, I just thought…' he paused, stealing a glance at Greg, and then continued with a note of uncertainty in his voice. 'Sherlock, do you remember what our mentor said about us being in close proximity to each other for two weeks?'_

_'Of course, John, but what… Oh!' Sherlock's eyebrows made a swift leap towards his hairline. 'I see what you mean. But I don't think it's going to be a problem'._

_'For you – maybe, but what about Greg?' John contradicted, causing the DI to look at them in confusion._

_'What about me?' he asked carefully, already suspecting the answer wouldn't be simple. But then, with Sherlock involved, nothing ever was._

_The man in question studied him closely for a few moments, and then looked at his partner, motioning for him to get on with the explanation._

_John nodded and shifted around, so he was sitting in front of Lestrade now. The DI_ _reacted by bending his legs and putting his arms around them, then tilted his head to the right and raised his eyebrows, encouraging John to begin._

_The blond doctor closed his eyes for a few seconds, getting his thoughts together, then took a deep breath and locked gazes with Greg. 'The thing is…' he began, then hesitated again, searching for the right words. 'Well, long story short, Sherlock and I are soulmates now. Which means we are connected mentally, energetically and… We're still in a stage of adapting to our bond, with mandatory condition of being close to each other round the clock within the next two weeks. If we planning to go ahead with the lifeboat thing, you should take into account…'_

_Greg raised his hand, interrupting him. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember the mentor saying about the host's consciousness needing to be put in a dormant state. If this is true, it's not me who's going to accept the changes. You're going to take over my body, and that means Sherlock should get used to your temporary vessel.'_

_Both men simultaneously looked at the third, and from the expression on his face concluded he wasn't at all happy with the perspective. Lestrade, caught in a sudden bout of protectiveness, started to reach out, intending to comfort the younger man, but John beat him to it, dissolving into a cloud of fluctuating energy and wrapping his soulmate in a protective cocoon. At first, Sherlock tensed a little, but a few seconds later relaxed and allowed a smile to take residence on his face._

_Encouraged by Sherlock's reaction, Greg dared to finish his initial gesture and ruffled the younger man's hair with almost parental fondness. Of course he was a bit nervous about pushing his hand right through John's cocoon, but it turned out to be a pleasant experience – the energy cloud yielded to his movement, wrapping around his hand like a tight glove, and accommodating each change of its position. Sherlock, comforted by their affection, closed his eyes and allowed the DI to caress his face gently, leaning into the touch._

_'Well, I think we aren't going to have any problems with getting used to Greg's presence, are we?' John murmured softly. Sherlock and Greg nodded mutely, and he continued, 'Then how about putting our plan into action, huh?'_

_The dark-haired man nodded again and reluctantly pulled away. Greg dropped his hand down and shifted back, giving the soulmates some space. John pulled away next, switching back to his holographic state and settling beside Sherlock once again._

_'I'm glad you managed to clear all the problems,' the mentor said, reminding them of his presence. 'Although, having observed you for the last few moments, I can assert that those problems were mostly farfetched.'_

_'Well, we all are bloody happy to hear that, but how about getting to the practical side of the operation?' Lestrade responded swiftly, causing John and Sherlock to raise their eyebrows in surprise. 'No offence, guys, but sometimes you talk too much.'_

_John grinned in response, giving the DI thumbs up. 'Way to go, Greg. I knew I could count on you with getting to the point. Those two tend to go off on a tangent quite often, and I just don't have enough strength to take on both of them at the same time.'_

_Lestrade chuckled, seeing Sherlock bristle and narrow his eyes at John's statement. 'Sure thing, mate, anytime. So?'_

_The mentor calmly accepted his challenge. 'Of course, Detective Inspector. As I have already mentioned, we need a medical facility for the transfer. I had to put the Quiet One into a lethargic sleep in order to prevent the damage from spreading through the brain tissue. Guiding his consciousness into another body is the easiest part of the procedure. With the vessel it's a bit more complicated. The Detective Inspector should be in a state of a clinical death for the transfer to be successful.'_

_'We can use the defibrillator,' John piped in. 'A strong charge will stop his heart, then we do the transfer and revive him with another charge.'_

_'Sounds great,' Greg remarked, not at all disturbed by John's straightforward approach. 'And since you're incapacitated, Doctor Barlow will be one doing the shocking, I guess?'_

_'He's a professional, Greg, he'll handle it, don't worry,' the blond doctor reassured._

_'I know, John,' the DI smiled. 'I had a chance to speak with him one-to-one. He's the one who called you to rescue me after Norton's attack. He'll manage.'_

_'Good,' Sherlock surmised. 'Back to reality, then.'_

A bright flash was the only warning Lestrade got, and a few seconds later he was rudely shaken awake by an impatient Sherlock.

"No time to waste, Lestrade," the detective urged, scooping John up from the bed bridal style and heading towards the door with a surprising ease. "Let's get him into the basement."

* * *

Mycroft played the video to the end, then pressed 'stop' and turned to look at Stanley. The sandy-haired doctor was pale with fury, and his eyes were blazing. "You…' he said slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. "You and Damian – you staged this. You…"

Cringing internally, the politician waited out Stanley's incoherent tirade. "Please, Doctor Barlow, spare me your act of rightful indignation. Mister Melford and I are practical people, and we formed an alliance against a formidable adversary. And my brother, as you might have noticed, agreed to participate in this venture on a free will. He knew the stakes, I assure you."

Those words just seemed to enrage the physician further. "Of course, for people like you the end always justifies the means! But what about John… Doctor Watson? Do you have any idea what it was like for him to go through this?"

"My brother is alive, Doctor Barlow. The episode with his clinical death was planned in advance, there wasn't going to be…"

Stanley raised his hand, interrupting him, and the older Holmes, to his own immense surprise, stopped mid-sentence. There was something in the doctor's eyes, something… He struggled to find the definition, but the sandy-haired doctor distracted him by starting to speak in a quiet voice. "Have you ever had an experience of finding the person closest to you dead, Mister Holmes?"

"Yes, Doctor Barlow, I did," Mycroft answered, doing his best to remain impassive. Stanley hit the bull's eye with this question, and he couldn't afford the emotional breakdown now. Not when the whole situation was resting on his shoulders like a crushing weight. "What's your point?"

The sandy-haired doctor looked at him intently for a few moments, then shook his head. "Sorry, sir, I went a bit too far. You're right, this is a very serious situation. You did what you had to do. It's just…"

He didn't have a chance to finish his phrase, because right at that moment the door opened, and Greg Lestrade stuck his head into the room. "Mycroft, Stanley! Oh, good, you're both here. We need your help in the operating theatre."

Barlow swiftly jumped to his feet, face creased in concern. "What happened? Is somebody hurt?"

"No, but John is lethargic, and we need you to zap Greg with the defibrillator," Sherlock called out from the corridor. "And lock up Mycroft, while you at it – time is of the essence, and I don't want to lose it while explaining everything to him."

"Ooookay," Stanley drawled, looking at the older Holmes in bewilderment. "I just hope you have time to brief ME."

"Sure," Sherlock replied succinctly. "Hurry up!"

The physician hesitated, unsure how to react to the detective's demand, but Mycroft solved the problem with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't worry, Stanley, I have no intention to interfere with my brother's plan, so no need to lock me up. Go, and make sure everyone stays safe."

Thrown off balance, Barlow grasped at the older man's words as if they were a salvation. "Sure, sir," he said simply and, turning on his heels, fled the room.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, and his eyes changed their colour to an inhuman blue. "So, you want to play, little brother," he said thoughtfully, his voice shifting into the mentor's timbre with the accustomed ease. "As you wish, my dear. As you wish…"

* * *

When Damian Melford first found out that he had a gift, he learned a lot of new things, one of them being the existence of the Twilight – a short period between the dream and lucidity, when the Gifted Ones were the most vulnerable. It was the moment when he was passing over the edge between the real and the unreal, and his defences were completely down. Damian learned to snap them back in place almost immediately, but sometimes even being lightning fast wasn't fast enough.

Like now.

Melford was feverishly strengthening his mental walls, when he felt it – a sleek presence of Norton's mind, slithering through the smallest cracks and spreading out lazily. That was the greatest irony of it all: the banker tapped into his mind without even realising it, just from the force of habit. Damian was helpless against this sudden invasion; all he could do is to wait for the moment the realisation would hit his superior like an avalanche.

He didn't have to wait long: Norton's slightly unfocussed eyes sharpened, then widened, then his eyebrow went up.

"Good old Damian," the banker smirked. "Looks like I underestimated you. Never could've imagined you hiding so many delightful secrets…"

The PA made an attempt to get out of bed, but was stopped by Norman's hands clamping onto his shoulders and pressing him down.

"Oh, no, you don't," Norton purred, fixing him with an unblinking stare. "No more running away and hiding, my dear Mister Melford. My God, such hunger in you, it's amazing! I've been so blind..."

"Sir, don't," Damian protested weakly, feeling the tidal wave of Norton's determination slamming into his mental shields. "There's no need to force your way in, let me open up for you."

The psychic tutted and shook his head, a wolfish grin curving his lips. "Nah, if I let you do that, there would be no fun. The thing is, my dear Damian," Norton leaned down, so his lips were close to the younger man's ear, "that the only proper way to bond with a soulmate is to bend him to your will. And frankly, you deserve to be taught a lesson for trying to hide yourself from me."

There was no way out, no salvation, Melford realised, closing his eyes in defeat. This was his blessing and his curse – Norman Norton was, in fact, his perfect soulmate, but with a psyche as twisted and warped as his, the merging could only result in Damian going insane.

He needed to try and preserve at least the core part of himself. Create an impression of a dead zone inside his mind, hide inside it, curl onto himself and go into a lethargy, hoping and praying for the day the Shifter would come and defeat his oppressor as he promised in the beginning.

"Ready or not, here I come," Norton singsonged into his ear, and that was the only warning he got. A second later a blinding pain erupted in his head as Norton teared down his shields, and Melford couldn't suppress the agonised scream. Tears streamed from his eyes as his very soul was torn apart and remade into something alien; and with a last flicker of his old self he crawled deeper into his hiding place, calling out to the Shifter with a helpless plea.

And the Shifter answered, his voice soft and soothing.

'I hear you, Child, don't be scared. Go to sleep, I'll be there to wake you up when he's no more.'

Lulled by the sound of that powerful voice, Damian drifted into a deep sleep, leaving Norton with a soulless ghost of a former man; but the psychic, giddy with his victory, had never noticed.

And several miles away, sitting in his comfortable chair, the blue-eyed Shifter allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

"Sleep well, my Child," he whispered, sending his thoughts to his distressed apprentice. "I will guard your dreams and keep you safe. You're not alone, and we still have a destiny to fulfil."

'Thank you,' came a quiet reply, and the Shifter nodded, closing his eyes and allowing his human part to take charge.

It was time to deal the answering strike.


	20. The Shifter

As long as he could remember, the Shifter's existence was connected to humans.

Well, technically entities didn't have a gender, but the Shifter preferred to associate itself with male humans. Of course there were a few occasions when he was connected with females – he treasured and respected them, but their emotions were so strong and at the same time so changeable, that he was overwhelmed most of the time, which made the task of functioning properly the real problem.

Males were much easier. While being equally as complex as females, their minds operated on the basis of logic and structure, which was similar to the Shifter's modus operandi.

As an entity, he had a long lifespan – he already lost count of the human beings he had been associated with; but if somebody bothered to ask, he could surely recall at least a couple of centuries. Anything before that was hazy and he couldn't remember at all how he came to be – only his purpose: to heal, to help, and to protect. Pain, despair, and helplessness – those were the main things that drew him to his soon-to-be companions like the moth to the flame. He appeared in their lives in the most critical moments, sometimes when they were balancing between life and death, each time bringing hope and salvation.

But he had no say in the matter of choosing those with whom he formed an alliance and he never stayed with them for long – just for exact amount of time it took to heal them or correct their wronged path. And when everything was well again, they hadn't even registered the moment he withdrew his presence, continuing along the road of his destiny. A strange, undeniable force was pushing him forward, pointing out his tasks for him and implacably pulling him away as soon as the immediate task was completed.

Sometimes he wondered if humans were aware of his presence at all – he never actually communicated with them and all his deeds were referred by humans as 'the stroke of luck'. But this was the order of things, so, after a brief musing, he finally accepted the situation and let it go.

For a long time he thought he was one of a kind – until the moment he felt a presence of the entity similar to him nearby. But unfortunately, at that point he was preoccupied with the task of saving his next companion from an imminent life-threatening danger, so all he could do is take notice and hope sometime he would meet somebody of his kind again.

Since that moment the Shifter had begun questioning the rules of his existence. At first, it was just an uncomfortable, nagging sensation at the edge of his consciousness which gradually transformed into something he would've called the feeling of doubt – that is, if he happened to have actual feelings. Which, of course, he didn't. But nevertheless, it was so overwhelming that he couldn't even function properly anymore; and, what was more terrifying, he started to make mistakes. Fortunately, not a critical ones, but they were serious enough to put his companions' lives at risk. Realising that, he tried to get himself under control but the temptation to know was already too strong to resist.

Finally, just after finishing his ongoing task, he rebelled. He fought the pull of the familiar force, refusing to proceed to the next task, and, as a result, experienced a few quite painful energy blows. Whoever staged this attack was clearly trying to subdue him; but the unknown attacker got the opposite result. This time the Shifter was determined to get the answers, whatever the cost, so he continued struggling against the merciless onslaught.

The battle of wills hadn't lasted long: his adversary ceased the attack and the Shifter, suspecting a trick, hastened to pull himself together and prepared to face whatever might be unleashed against him next. But the threat never came; a voice sounded instead, speaking in gentle, soothing tones. He didn't even need to ask anything – the owner of the voice seemed to read him easily. From a lulling stream of words the Shifter singled out the desired data – he wasn't alone, there were many entities similar to him with the purpose of helping and guarding human beings.

But the most surprising thing was that he and others like him were actually created by the aforementioned human beings ages ago. They were able to exist only if the mankind did, which, in the Shifter's opinion, basically made them slaves. Of course, he didn't fail to express that in a straightforward manner but his outburst got no response – the voice just continued speaking, filling the Shifter's consciousness with the information on the need-to-know basis. The whole thing obviously was one-sided, so the Shifter simply switched into a passive mode, letting his consciousness absorb the facts and sort through them on its own accord. The voice was expecting him to obey – so he obeyed, deciding he won't be just a passive executor of somebody else's will anymore.

From now on, he was going to be the one choosing the next companion.

The owner of the mysterious voice seemed to buy his act of submissiveness. Or pretended to buy but for the Shifter it didn't really matter – he already made his choice, and was determined to stick to it till the end.

His first independent choice turned out to be Mycroft Holmes.

It was a critical situation – an almost successful assassination attempt, which left the older Holmes balancing between life and death, and the Shifter just happened to be nearby, pretending to follow the intended lead. It took him a mere moment to detect a new target and a couple more to change the route. His guiding force was a little slow on the uptake this time and when it moved to intercept him, he was already creating a bond with the damaged human. The Shifter knew too well that if the bond was in the actual stage of creation, it was forbidden to interrupt the process; the result would've been deadly for both participants. He used this knowledge to his advantage and quickly wound his energy cocoon around the dying man, speeding up the regeneration process. Out of curiosity, he started scanning Mycroft's body in order to become more familiar with his new companion and when he scanned the man's brain, the discovery of a malignant tumour came as a shocking surprise.

Up to that point, the Shifter considered his healing skills sophisticated enough to cure even the most neglected illness; but then again, he never had to deal with such a kind of tumour before.

The bonding, however, reached its critical stage, and there was no turning back now. He needed to find the way of curing the human. And there was another aspect of this bond he hadn't bothered to consider – since it was his free choice, there was no timeframe attached and he more than likely was going to end up spending the rest of this man's life tied to his mind and soul by an energy link.

Actions always bring consequences, and when you're on your own and have absolutely no clue how to deal with them, your best strategy is to tread carefully. So the Shifter took one step at a time, first of all slowing down the cell growth processes in the tumour. Luckily for him, the human was still in early stage of illness; that gave the Shifter enough time to find the cure.

His next move was dictated by sheer curiosity: if he was to stay connected to this male for a long time, he needed to know him better; not just the physical aspects, but rather the whole personality. And that meant he had to make the human aware of his presence.

Stilling his conscience, he carefully probed the man's mind. It was in a bit of disarray, which was to be expected after the near-death experience. But as soon as their minds connected, the Shifter felt the human reach out to him eagerly. And that was enough to send them both into the dream environment right away.

* * *

_The Shifter found himself in a big, tastefully decorated sitting room. The curtains on the window were drawn and the room was plunged in semi-darkness, save from the part where his companion was sitting in the armchair in front of the fireplace. The fire was lit, and the man watched the flames thoughtfully._

_From the brief examination the Shifter managed to perform right before they went into the dream, he gathered that his new companion was the embodiment of logic, composure and rationality; therefore, the best way to succeed in forming a proper bond with him was to show himself as equal. And that, besides everything else, meant revealing himself in human form. Having briefly considered his options, the Shifter decided to stick with the appearance of the male he was associated with a few years ago: a young, sharply dressed man with short, neatly combed dark hair, dark brown eyes and a smile which quickly won the favour of anyone he came in contact with. It took mere seconds to create a three-dimensional hologram, then a bit more to solidify it into a human body. After that he slid inside the flesh phantom and let himself adjust to the unfamiliar sensations._

_He must have made some noise during the process, because the man in the armchair started and turned sharply in his direction._

_"Who are you?" he demanded, giving the stranger thorough once-over. "And where am I?"_

_'A name', the Shifter realised, 'Humans have names, I should've thought about that'._

_Even if it was the dream state, he needed to make a good impression on his companion. He never bothered to remember names of those he had been connected with; but some of them, like that young man's, managed to find their places in his memory._

_"Damian Melford", he answered calmly, making his way to the armchair across of his companion. "And you are..?"_

_"Mycroft Holmes," there was a note of irritation in the man's voice. "You didn't answer all of my questions."_

_"I will, but first I need you to tell me the last thing you remember."_

_Mycroft's jaw tightened. "I asked first. Why should I answer you?"_

_"Because the accuracy of my answer depends on the precision of your memory, Mister Holmes," the Shifter answered, not at all intimidated by an expression on Mycroft's face. "All I can say for now is that your life is not going to be the same as before."_

_"This information is hardly useful, Mister Melford," his companion replied, narrowing his eyes. "But I see no reason to conceal my memories from you. The last thing I remember is my car being fired upon. Sadly, it turned to be not as bulletproof as I expected."_

_"Correct," the Shifter nodded in confirmation. "You were hit three times – your shoulder, chest and stomach. Two of the bullets went right through. The third is logged in your left kidney."_

_The only reaction he got was a slight twitch of Mycroft's eyebrows; apart from that, the man's face remained impassive. "I'm certainly not a medical man, but even to me this doesn't sound promising."_

_He didn't know where that came from, but suddenly the Shifter decided to tell Mycroft the whole truth. "You're right. Your stretcher is on the way to the operating theatre right now. You've lost a lot of blood, and you're in a state of clinical death. They are trying to revive you, but that's not going to happen until this conversation is over."_

_Mycroft's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. "That sounds suspiciously like blackmail. Why should I believe you? For all I know, you may have kidnapped me after the shooting and given me some drug in order to obtain highly classified information."_

_Mycroft Holmes certainly was clever and sharp-witted; the Shifter was beginning to like him. "Bravo, Mister Holmes, I must congratulate you. I've never met a man with such a creative mind. But let me ask you a question: do you really think the truth drug is capable of inducing a highly detailed hallucination?"_

_"Depends on the drug," Mycroft's eyes were still guarded, but the posture became less rigid. "But you're right; I don't think this level of detail is possible."_

_"The human mind is a curious thing, Mister Holmes," the Shifter leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. "Yours, for example. You're between life and death now. Most people in this state see a dark long tunnel with a light at the end. And here you are, sitting in a chair in your own home. Remarkable."_

_Mycroft tilted his head to the right, cocking an eyebrow. "Quite so. And that brings me to the initial question: assuming all of this is a figment of my imagination, who are you? My alter ego?"_

_"Not exactly. More like a soulmate, and everything that's happening here is a shared experience," the Shifter said nonchalantly, watching Mycroft's reaction. This was the critical moment, the point of no return; the future of their relationship was hanging by a thread. Right now there was one possible and very logical way it could go: acceptance or rejection. The former was, of course, more desirable than the latter, because should he be rejected, his life was going to be turned into a nightmare for years to come._

_The face of his chosen companion was still unreadable when he crossed his arms on his chest. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't being a soulmate presupposes to do it voluntarily?"_

_"True but there are times in life when choices are overridden by necessity. That's exactly what happened in your case. You were dying. I saved you," the Shifter paused, monitoring his companion's reaction, and was relieved to notice his words didn't cause Mycroft's immediate rejection. On the contrary, there was a spark of something akin to curiosity in the eyes of the human. "But in order to do that, I needed to bond with you. That's the purpose of my existence, the reason I was created."_

_Mycroft uncrossed his arms and leaned slightly to the left, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and propping his chin on his fist – interested, but sceptic. "Would you mind elaborating on that statement?"_

_It was now or never and the Shifter decided to lay his cards on the table. He needed to earn Mycroft's trust and the only way to do that was to tell him everything: all of his life up until now; his mission, the rules to his existence, and his impact on lives of those with whom he was previously connected. Granted, it was a total violation of the rules but - considering that by his decision to bond with Mycroft Holmes he already crossed the line - breaking the rest of the rules now wasn't a big deal._

_By the time the Shifter finished telling his story, Mycroft's scepticism obviously reached a critical level. His arms were crossed again and his stare was so cold it probably could freeze the whole room. "Are you seriously expecting me to believe all that?" the tone of his companion's voice was equally icy. "I was under the impression that I'm dealing with a sensible person. Seems like I was mistaken."_

_'That's it,' the Shifter thought, lowering his head and absentmindedly looking at his hands. 'The worst case scenario. He's too rational; he's never going to believe me. What am I going to do now?'_

_'That's why there are rules to your existence, Child,' the familiar voice sounded suddenly, and the Shifter jerked his head up, getting a suspicious narrowing of Mycroft's eyes in return. 'Don't concern yourself; the human isn't able to hear me'._

_'He was dying,' the Shifter answered defensively. 'And there was no one near. I've done what I was supposed to do.'_

_'He wasn't intended to be your charge. Our kind isn't supposed to communicate with humans. Not all of them are advanced enough to accept our existence…'_

_'If that's so, how come I was able to help several of them to unlock the abilities they call supernatural?'_

_'Those were exceptions of the rule, Child. This one is not gifted. By saving him you half-completed the task; the other half is to heal him. After that you'll be nothing but a burden for him, doomed to spend all his remaining years of life chained to him. The only way to correct the situation is to imprint on each other.'_

_'But he's not… He's never… He won't agree to that.'_

_'There are different ways, Child.'_

_'But that would be coercion! I won't do that to him!'_

_'You have no choice. You need to finish your bonding. When he's imprinted, there will be no reason to resist you.'_

_'Fine, but I'm going to tell him about everything afterwards.'_

_'It's your choice. Not that it would make any difference…'_

_'For me it will.'_

_'As you wish. You know what to do.'_

_'Unfortunately.'_

_"You seem to be alarmingly at a loss for words, Mister Melford," Mycroft remarked, disrupting the Shifter's communication and bringing his attention back to the Dream._

_"Sorry, Mister Holmes, I needed to communicate with one of my kind," there was no point to invent excuses, since he was about to forcefully complete their bonding ritual._

_"And what's the result of this communication?" his companion enquired, rising an eyebrow._

_"I must apologise for the inconvenience I caused you by my sudden appearance," the Shifter rose from his chair, extending his hand towards Mycroft. "I would be honoured if you shook my hand. You're a man worthy of admiration."_

_Mycroft Holmes frowned, but, nevertheless, reached out and took the proffered hand._

_"I'm sorry, Mister Holmes," the Shifter whispered, seeing the alarm in the eyes of his unwilling companion, and in the next moment his world went supernova…_

* * *

Of course he apologised afterwards, but Mycroft, having seen the Shifter's true nature, waved his excuses away. The only thing he asked the Shifter NOT to do – is to give him supernatural abilities.

"You can use my body for your purposes, if you need. But let me continue my life as it was earlier," Mycroft said, when the Shifter met Sherlock and sensed the younger Holmes' hidden gift. "My brother is reckless; he's going to unlock his gift sooner or later. And that means more than enough strange people in our family."

The Shifter agreed, and they continued to live in perfect symbiosis. Of course, that hadn't prevented the Shifter attempts to heal the tumour in Mycroft's head; but he did it as carefully and covertly as possible. He had a reason for not telling Mycroft about this malady, but he often wondered why this tumour hadn't been noticed by medics.

A year later, they encountered Norman Norton – a powerful psychic whom the Shifter recognised as one of his previous companions. Norman had a gift he put to evil ends, and the Shifter (with Mycroft's agreement, of course) formulated and put into motion a plan to stop Norton once and for all.

Unfortunately, his idea backfired, and now was the time to try and set things right.

He shared his plan with Mycroft, and the older Holmes immediately rose from the chair, walked out of the room and crossed the corridor towards the door to the impromptu emergency room. As soon as he touched the door handle, the Shifter took control.

Sherlock, upon hearing somebody enter, turned around and, noticing his brother, shot him a withering stare. A second after that his eyes widened.

"Mycroft? What the hell is going on?" he asked in bewilderment, causing the rest of the group to turn their heads in perfect unison.

The older Holmes' eyes were shining with an unnatural blue.

The Shifter manipulated Mycroft's lips into a smile. "Pleased to meet you at last, Curious One. Oh, and I can finally reveal my name to you. I'm the Shifter."

 


	21. The Calm Before The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a bit of violence, disturbing images at the end of the chapter.

For a moment, everyone was silent; then Sherlock turned to Lestrade and, placing a hand on his back, gently nudged the DI towards the bed near the one on which he deposited his lethargic soulmate.

"You'd better lie down, Greg," the younger man said softly. "I need a couple of minutes to sort this situation out, and after that we'll continue with the lifeboat process."

Half-turning, Greg laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed lightly, then let go and headed in the direction the younger Holmes so clearly indicated for him. Stanley was already waiting near the bed, and helped him settle in for the upcoming process with all possible comfort. Greg thanked the sandy-haired doctor quietly, but kept his gaze trained on Sherlock.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" the DI asked carefully. "I have a feeling you've got a lot to discuss."

"Don't worry, Greg," Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder before strolling confidently towards his brother. "Time is relative."

"Not sure I understand what you mean by that, but it's your call, anyway," the silver-haired man relaxed on the bed, folding his hands across his chest. "Good luck!"

Sherlock just nodded and closed the remaining short distance, stopping almost nose-to-nose with Mycroft. The older Holmes, whose eyes returned to their normal colour, by that moment managed to close the door and now was leaning against it, waiting. Without saying a single word Sherlock, to everyone's immense surprise, placed his hands on his sibling's shoulders and leaned his forehead against Mycroft's; a second later the older man slid his arms around Sherlock and Holmes' brothers literally froze.

_They were back at the top of the cliff, where John and Sherlock had their first common dream; only now he was sharing the dream space with Mycroft and his 'associate'. Speaking of which…_

_'I'd prefer to see both of you rather than have some entity hiding inside my brother,' Sherlock demanded, clasping his hands behind his back and doing his best to appear more intimidating. 'And I expect to hear your explanation, Shifter'._

_'Considering the whole situation it's a reasonable demand,' Mycroft's figure sort of flickered, and a moment later a second person appeared beside him – a young man in a dark suit, whom Sherlock immediately recognized as Norton's PA._

_'Interesting choice,' the detective commented, while a phantom of Damian Melford brought three comfortable armchairs into existence by clicking his fingers._

_'A logical one,' commented the Shifter, gesturing towards the armchairs. 'Simply because this person plays a significant role in my plan. Not as significant as yours, of course, but without his interference Norton would've caused much more damage.'_

_'I'd rather hear_ _a_ _less enigmatic version of this story,' Sherlock made his way to the one of the armchairs and sat down, habitually steepling his fingers in front of his lips. 'And do try to make it as short as possible – relative or not, time is_ _of_ _the essence right now.'_

_The Shifter made a grand gesture of escorting the older Holmes to the armchair opposite Sherlock's, then repositioned his own so it now stood alongside Mycroft's. 'You may not concern yourself with a timeframe problem; I'm quite adept at manipulating it.'_

_'Amongst other things,' Sherlock couldn't help commenting, but the two men across from him chose not to react to this obvious jab. 'Fine, I'm listening - although I'd prefer the Shifter to be the one telling the story. He's the one who got us all into this mess, as I gather.'_

_'Sherlock,' Mycroft said warningly, leve_ _l_ _ling his patent ice-cold stare on his brother._

_'That_ _'s alright, my Dearest One,' the Shifter placed his hand on Mycroft's arm, eliciting a snort from Sherlock at that obvious display of affection. 'I'm already used to the Curious One's way of communicating.'_

_Sherlock answered with a wolfish grin and Mycroft tensed, preparing for a thorough tongue-lashing from his brother; but the grin was gone a second later, and the younger Holmes' expression became all businesslike._

_'So, the story,' he prompted, placing his arms on the armrests and fixing the Shifter with his usual piercing stare._

_The Shifter took his hand off his companion's arm and mirrored Sherlock's pose. Mycroft shifted slightly, so his arm now was pressed against his associate's from wrist to elbow, and the Shifter began speaking._

_Truth be told, during this narrative Sherlock managed to check his wristwatch - a few times - and he didn't bother to pretend he WASN'T doing that. Not that it mattered, anyway – the Shifter was so absorbed in his story he hadn't even registered Mycroft's fingers lightly stroking the back of his hand. This little caress was, in fact, the reason for the younger to start his show with the watch-checking. Mycroft acted like a bonded person, and Sherlock, also being one, was suddenly overwhelmed with a strange feeling of emptiness. It took him a few moments to make sense of that phenomenon, but when he did, the only indication of that was a brief loss of focus in his keen eyes. His mind continued to receive and sort through an incoming stream on information, but with each moment the void inside him grew bigger, threatening to swallow him whole._

_That's what craving felt like._

_The Shifter, as if sensing Sherlock's distress, swiftly brought his story to an end, adding a few bits of relevant information, and fell silent after that, giving the detective a necessary reprieve to pull himself together._

_The younger Holmes managed a curt nod in return and tipped his head back, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Now wasn't the time for sentiments; John's life depended on his actions, and he couldn't allow himself the luxury of taking second chances._

_'Nice collection of screw-ups you've got here,' he commented flatly, lowering his head and locking eyes with the Shifter. 'I'm not talking about my brother, of course – he's your only correct decision in this whole chain of dilettantish actions. Although I can write off your story before meeting him as a misconduct. But after that… Mycroft, you're one of the smartest men on this whole planet, how could you possibly have allowed him to drag you into that apotheosis of stupidity?'_

_Mycroft Holmes always prided himself on the ability to keep his emotions under control. Except for the occasions when his younger brother persisted in getting on his nerves._

_Like now, for example._

_'Sherlock,' only one word, but anyone with an instinct of self-preservation would've backed down immediately._

_Anyone except Sherlock, who managed to square his shoulders and stick out his chin, gearing up for a round of verbal sparring. Mycroft rolled his eyes, preparing to rebuff his sibling, but right at that moment the Shifter interfered, breaking the tension with a quiet laugh._

_'Calm down, my Dearest One,' his unusual partner whispered. 'The Curious One is just trying to deal with a significant lapse in his memory. Combined with the fact of you not only knowing everything, but also partially being a reason of that lapse…'_

_'I heard everything, you know,' Sherlock interrupted petulantly. 'Care to tell me whose brilliant idea was that?'_

_Mycroft couldn't prevent a crooked smile from emerging on his face: when it came to petulance, the Shifter could easily outdo Sherlock without even breaking a sweat._

_'It was a combined effort,' the Shifter replied calmly. 'Beings of my kind are not all-powerful or all-knowing, Curious One. We make mistakes and we do our best to correct them. We were created by humans, after all; you can't expect us to be perfect.'_

_'In that case you should've stuck to your initial purpose – fixing your master and continuing to your next task, instead of trying to play god.'_

_That was a clear provocation on Sherlock's part, and Mycroft tensed again, knowing full well how the Shifter resented any mentions of his whole kind being just slaves. But this time the older man's fears were unfounded – his companion reacted to Sherlock's insult with an understanding smile._

_'As I already mentioned, I'm just trying to serve my purpose as well as possible; and I apologise for not being able to prevent the attack on the one you call Greg Lestrade. As for the Quiet One – he's stronger than you think. His body has already begun to heal; the lifeboat is the best way to speed this process.'_

_Mycroft, who was listening to their conversation attentively,_ _raised an eyebrow_ _upon hearing a strange word. '_ _T_ _he lifeboat?'_

_This time it was Sherlock who launched into a quite detailed retelling of recent events and after that charted out the whole plan about John temporarily cohabiting Lestrade's body._

_Mycroft proceeded to hear him out without any interruption, but Sherlock could clearly see that his older brother wasn't at all happy with this turn of events. And he didn't fail to express his opinion the moment Sherlock finally fell silent._

_'Allow me to redirect your recent question: whose brilliant idea was that? And, more importantly: how come that two of you managed simultaneously to lose your minds?' Mycroft's voice was disturbingly_ _calm_ _. 'I could've expected such extravagance from Sherlock, but you…'_

_The Shifter was gathering his thoughts to defend himself when Sherlock caught his gaze and shook his head, smiling slightly._

_'And I could never expect such a deep concern on John's part from you, dear brother,' the dark-haired man murmured. 'Clearly, the Shifter has a good influence on you. Never before have you shown your emotions so clearly; it's certainly a big progress on your part. But there's nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. John and I, we know full well what we are about to do. I would've never approved such a plan if I hadn't been sure all participants were willing to carry it out.'_

_There was still a shadow of doubt in Mycroft's eyes, but Sherlock knew his brother too well: the older Holmes was already on their side and planning ahead. That knowledge was confirmed a moment later, when Mycroft's gaze cleared and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. 'So, Gregory…'_

_'… is perfectly okay with this and willing to share his body with John,' Sherlock confirmed. 'There's one small problem, though: I don't think John would be happy if he discovers the circumstances of my death. He is very straightforward in his beliefs, and if he finds out we deceived him, it would be a complete disaster.'_

_'Nonsense,' Mycroft waved his hand for emphasis. 'He is ex-military, and he's quite capable of seeing the bigger picture. Our plan was a necessity; surely he can understand that.'_

_'Of course he can,' agreed Sherlock. 'But it wouldn't change the fact we lied to him. Contrary to your opinion, dear brother, John is extremely sensitive on the subject of right and wrong. When Norton is dealt with, I'll tell John the whole truth.'_

_'That's reasonable,' Mycroft agreed after a brief hesitation. 'Consider your request satisfied.'_

_'What if Norton uses this knowledge against you?' the Shifter cut in. 'He will not hesitate if he discovers your secret_ _._ _'_

_'And how exactly is he going to do that? As I understand, there are only three people privy to this information – four, if we count you. No-one in this room is going to disclose it, and, judging by the fact that Damian Melford agreed to work against his boss, he's not so stupid to do it either.'_

_Mycroft lowered his eyes for a second, and Sherlock, knowing his brother's manners too well, raised his eyebrow. The older Holmes had some news, and they were not good._

_'Actually, there's one more person we should take into account,' Mycroft said firmly. '_ _Damian Mel_ _ford contacted Doctor Barlow not long ago with the purpose of warning us about Norton's arrival this morning. I deemed it necessary to disclose some information to him.'_

_Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, then his face cleared. 'A slight improvidence on your part, Mycroft, but not really a problem. A strong sedative and a locked room – and it's solved.'_

_'A radical solution, but in these circumstances – a reasonable one,' the Shifter agreed. 'But we have one more problem, I'm afraid. An hour ago Norman Norton forcefully bonded with Damian Melford. It's possible that he now has all the information Melford knew about.'_

_'Then it's going to be my word against his,' Sherlock replied confidently. 'And John is not going to believe him.'_

_'Let's hope you're right,' Mycroft concluded. 'Now, how about getting back and including John and Gregory in our conversation?'_

_'Agreed,' Sherlock and the Shifter answered simultaneously. Mycroft nodded and snapped his fingers…_

"You have definitely lost a few pounds, Mycroft," Sherlock commented before Mycroft let him go and stepped back. "And you've changed you cologne. Not to mention you're not freezing me anymore, which is reassuring."

This was Sherlock's way of complimenting people, so Mycroft acknowledged his brother's words with a small smile, then gestured towards the rest of their group. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Sherlock headed to John's bed, and Mycroft made his way towards Greg. "Stanley, prepare the defibrillator. We'll need it in a couple of minutes."

"Sure, Sherlock," Barlow did as he was told, and the Holmes brothers sat down on the edges of the beds.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, perplexed, just as the older Holmes reached out and took his hand. Out of the corner of his eye the DI saw Sherlock doing the same with John.

"Shh, Gregory, everything's fine," Mycroft said quietly, extending his arm in Sherlock's direction. The younger man immediately gripped it and closed his eyes. "You just need to hold John's hand. We have some news, but we need to be in the dreamscape to tell them to both of you."

"Well, if you say so..," Lestrade shifted on the bed and stretched his arm so he could close his fingers around John's lax ones.

"Excellent," Mycroft murmured. "Now close your eyes…"

_It was the cave again, and Greg looked around, immediately spotting John, Sherlock and Mycroft in the far corner. Mycroft turned to look at him and beckoned him over, his eyes looking unnaturally blue for some reason. Greg briefly wondered if it was the effect of lighting; but when he got closer it became apparent that the older Holmes' eyes were indeed looking absolutely inhuman. Shocked, Lestrade stumbled a little, and then unconsciously took a step back. Sherlock, in turn, moved forward, closed the distance between them and, stopping by Lestrade's side, turned about and placed his arm around the DI's shoulders._

_'Allow me to introduce you to our mentor, Greg,' Sherlock said amiably. 'Also known as the Shifter, and currently sharing a body with my brother, Mycroft.'_

_'The lifeboat?' Greg enquired carefully, beginning to move forward due to Sherlock's apparent decision to drag him along._

_'Not quite,' the mysterious Shifter replied. 'The lifeboat is a temporal measure for critical conditions. We are bonded for life.'_

_'I'm not sure I want to know all the details right now, but I see your point,' Lestrade pulled out of Sherlock's half-embrace. 'Okay, you introduced us; what's next?'_

_'Now we can proceed to the next stage of our plan, which requires returning back to reality and using the defibrillator.'_

_'Okay,' the DI took a deep breath. 'I'm ready.'_

_'Don't worry, Greg, Mycroft and I going to take care of everything. All you need is to relax,' Sherlock squeezed his shoulder reassuringly._

_'Interesting assessment, considering the fact I need to actually die for it,' the silver-haired man joked lightly. 'But I trust you. Both of you. So do your thing, and see you later.'_

_John, who was silent up to that moment, placed his hand on Greg's arm. The blond-haired doctor looked dazed, which was understandable: finding out that your soulmate's brother is happily sharing his body with your spiritual guide tends to come as a bit of a shock, to put it lightly. So Greg did the one thing a real friend would do: he made an attempt to cheer John up._

_'I distinctly remember telling you once that you'll never be bored with these two, John,' Lestrade flashed John his trademark boyish grin. 'Just go with the flow, and wait for an opportunity to harass both of them about everything.'_

_John smiled in return. 'Only if you would back me up on that, Greg.'_

_'Sure thing,' another grin, this time positively blinding. 'So… want to be my guest for a while?'_

_'Thought you'd never ask…'_

They were back to reality in the next second, and Mycroft immediately let go of Greg and Sherlock's hands. Greg and Sherlock did the same, and the younger Holmes raised an eyebrow at his brother questioningly.

"Just a moment," Mycroft replied, and his eyes went sky-blue again. "So, here's what we are going to do: Curious One, I need you to place your fingers on the Quiet One's temples and ease his soul out of his body. After that I'll take over and help him to nestle inside his vessel. Doctor Barlow will take care of all medical details of the procedure, and I also need him to give an injection of mild sedative to the inspector right after the revival. A newly created symbiotic connection needs time and space to settle without any disturbances, so sleep is mandatory. Any questions?"

Three men simultaneously shook their heads.

"Good, then we are ready. Everybody take your positions, please."

Greg closed his eyes and relaxed as much as he could. There was a whine of the charging defibrillator, then his body arched off the bed and a sharp pain blossomed inside his chest. A second later his world went away.

As soon as Greg flat lined, Sherlock switched on his ability to see energies and colours. John's soul was right in front of him – a sparkling cloud confined inside the shell of his physical body. The younger man pressed his fingertips to his soulmate's temples, and the cloud immediately gravitated upwards, breaching the confines and settling on Sherlock hands, which the detective hurriedly cupped together.

A second later Mycroft's strong palms closed around Sherlock's slender ones, and, after a brief hesitation the dark-haired man allowed the cloud to move into the Shifter's hands. After that he watched as the Shifter carried his soulmate's energy to Greg's lifeless body and literally pushed John in. Stanley charged the defibrillator and shocked Lestrade into life, then slipped a hypodermic needle under the skin of his arm as soon as Greg's heart started beating again.

Sherlock was still watching as John's energy carefully spread and settled in Greg's body and a connection formed between the doctor's and the inspector's minds, when Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned to look at him, noticing that it was his brother again – the older Holmes' eyes were they normal gray-blue colour.

"We need to move them to another room, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "John will need you when he wakes up, so it would be better if you stay with him for the night. Plus it would give you an opportunity to get used to Lestrade's presence."

"I hope you are not suggesting...," Sherlock began, aiming for his usual witty retort, but Mycroft suddenly pulled him into an awkward embrace. The younger Holmes froze, unsure at first how to react, and then slowly hugged his older sibling back, lowering his head and tucking his face into Mycroft's shoulder. His brother took a shuddering breath, and Sherlock felt a touch of something wet on his cheek. Alarmed, he pulled back a little and saw tear tracks on his brother's face; Mycroft was crying quietly and, judging by his tightly shut eyes, trying to get himself under control at the same time. Unsure what to do to help, Sherlock finally hugged his sibling closer and waited, from time to time making soothing sounds.

A minute later Mycroft untangled himself from his younger brother's arms and stepped back, pulling a handkerchief out of the breast pocket and dabbing at his face. Sherlock watched him silently for a moment, then asked softly:

"Alright?"

"Absolutely," the older Holmes folded the handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. "Sorry. That was a bit over the top."

"The Shifter?" Sherlock enquired with understanding.

"Being a host to a supernatural being is never easy," Mycroft admitted, straightening his suit jacket. "Sometimes it can be… overwhelming."

"You don't need to make excuses for me, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, turning and crossing over to Lestrade's bed. "Stanley, we need to transfer both of them into another room. There should be a stretcher; fetch it, please."

Mycroft, grateful for Sherlock's silent support, moved into the corner of the room and motioned for the physician to follow. "Sherlock, would you be so kind as to see to your sleeping arrangements? And switch on the intensive care unit, while you're at it – we need to take care of John's body."

Sherlock nodded and disappeared through the door, and Mycroft, with Barlow's cooperation, pulled the stretcher towards the bed.

Half an hour later John's body was hooked to the various machinery and Sherlock settled into the bed with the sleeping Lestrade. He still had trouble associating the DI's appearance with his soulmate; mostly because Greg's smell was different and therefore extremely confusing. But, as his brother said earlier, Sherlock needed to get used to it, so he did the only logical thing he could – moved closer and pillowed his head on Greg's shoulder, inhaling deeply.

The sleep came two minutes later, and Sherlock faded away with his nose buried in Greg's silver hair…

* * *

Norton finished his bonding assault and pulled away, surveying his soulmate with a morbid curiosity. Damian's eyes were red from crying, face streaked with tear tracks, and the lower lip was bloody – he probably bit through it from the pain he seemed to be experiencing. But he belonged to Norton now with his body and soul, and the banker was happy to see Melford so pliant and submissive. While they were bonding, Norman detected the area in Damian's mind where his PA attempted to hide the core of his personality; the banker cruelly assisted him, building a solid wall around it and turning a sanctuary into a prison. There was no trace of Melford's previous persona – just a blank slate for Norton to do as he pleased; and the psychic knew exactly what his first experiment would be.

Norman Norton, in fact, had a hidden persona. It had formed in his youth, when he met a man once – a powerful psychopath who locked him inside a small room in his house and taught him to be submissive and obedient. Norton learned that lesson well and, with the passing of time, developed a strange obsession first with knots, then with tying people up. When he received his gift, those urges went away; but now, after his merging with Damian, they returned with a vengeance.

Getting up from the bed, Norton went to the wardrobe into which Melford had unpacked his clothes, selected two expensive silk ties – his birthday presents to Damian, - and returned to his PA.

"Turn onto your side, keep your hands behind your back and your legs straight," Norman ordered, feeling as his skin tingled with the long-forgotten excitement. "Hurry up, pet."

"Yes, master," the younger man threw back the blanket and hurried to comply, presenting Norton with a sight which made him hold his breath.

So beautiful, all his…

Hands trembling slightly in anticipation, Norman set about his task, binding Melford's arms and legs. It took him about a minute and a half; and when he was finished, he slid back into bed, pulling Damian closer. He stopped only when the younger man's body was pressed flush to his side and his head pillowed on his chest; this position allowed Norton to slide an arm around Melford's body, securing him in place.

Satisfied, the psychic closed his eyes and relaxed, yawning. "Show me your dreamscapes, pet. And make them beautiful, or you will be punished."

"Your wish is my command, master," Damian answered quietly, trying to pull Norman into a dream world. But his gift of being the dream architect went away with the previous personality, and after a few futile attempts his disappointed master simply pushed him off the bed. Melford hit the floor and curled into a ball, trying not to make a single sound as the tears of pain and despair rolled down his face.

Deep inside his mind, behind the concrete wall, his very soul crumpled to the floor, slumping in defeat. No matter how hard it tried, it couldn't break the wall from the inside. There was only one hope for Damian now, only one being that could save him.

The Shifter.

If only he will be able to survive the wait…

 


	22. Two sides of a coin

_When you're trapped behind impenetrable walls, your sense of time is bound to go haywire sooner or later. Damian's ensnared conscience was totally unaware of what was happening outside, but one thing it knew for sure: after a first bout of panic and despair came a quiet certainty of the fact it was going to find the solution of this problem, with or without the Shifter's help._

_But for that to happen there should be a plan – a well-thought and clever one. First stage of which should be to stop referring to himself in a third person. HE was Damian Melford, the one and only; the person outside the mental wall around him was just a phantom, an imposter he could use for his purposes right under Norton's nose._

_Speaking of mental walls: as a dream architect, Damian knew how to create a hidden passage in a seemingly solid had a favourite trick for that purpose, something he called "a doom box": a small_ sphere _containing a bundle of energy with transforming capacities. All he had to do is place it inside the wall he created, and simply activate it later._

_There was only one problem: during Norton's assault Melford's mind had been clouded from unbearable pain and he didn't remember creating a wall that was now protecting him as well as being his prison. And there was only one way to deal with this problem, so Damian stilled his mind and scanned the wall._

_The result turned to be better than he expected: his wall actually managed to integrate itself into Norton's. More than that, it also transferred all "doom boxes", so they were now placed in a net-looking formation deep inside Norton's wall, waiting to be activated._

_Just a little nudge – and they would come alive, setting him free…_

_Who was he to resist the temptation?_

_Melford selected the nearest "doom box" and cracked the sphere open, initiating a chain reaction that spread through the entire wall in mere seconds._

_It was quite beautiful, actually: as if somebody turned on a vast garland of lights. One after another, they started to emit a soft yellow glow, melting the wall around them. Damian watched with fascination as the aforementioned wall first become transparent, then disappeared, falling down in a shower of sparks._

_A barren landscape stretched out around him, decorated only with twisted and deformed pieces of metal sticking out of the ground. To the younger man's surprise, said metal pieces formed something resembling an alley which ended with a slightly elevated plateau. On that plateau stood a small pavilion; its walls were decorated with intricate wrought lattices which totally obscured the view of the pavilion's interior._

_But Damian could swear he saw a movement inside: someone was waiting for him, and somehow Melford knew this person. Mostly because the design of the pavilion was an exact replica of the one from their villa in France._

_Not surprising, though: he had a soulmate now, and, although their merging wasn't ideal, he needed to make it work so both of them could 's certainly wasn't going to be an easy task, but Damian had no choice._

_Granted, meeting with Norman face-to-face wasn't at all rational right now; but on the other hand, the fact of his soulmate's presence in this dreamscape could mean his inclination to sort the situation out._

_There was no point in stalling any longer, so Damian simply resigned himself to whatever fate was waiting for him and took a first step towards the pavilion. As soon as he did that, his guess about the identity of a person waiting for him was confirmed: Norton stepped out and, crossing his arms on his chest, leaned against the wall._

_His boss' appearance forced Damian to stop in his tracks. The thing was, during all the time Melford was working with Norton, he never saw the man dressed in casual clothes. The banker always preferred expensive tailored suits, even at home. To see him now, dressed in dark jeans, a black turtleneck and a leather jacket, was a bit of a shock, to put it lightly._

_Perplexed, the younger man instinctively reached out with his senses, and his soulmate accepted the call, establishing the connection and welcoming Damian into his mind._

_After an initial shock the younger man found he wasn't at all surprised by the fact of Norton's consciousness closing around him with great care. There were no cruelty, no anger, no enmity –only an infinite patience and understanding._

_'Not exactly what you expected, I take it,' Norman's quiet voice pulled Damian out of his reverie. 'And, while I'm sure we are perfectly able to communicate at this distance, it would be much more comfortable in here,' Norton turned his head and pointedly looked at the pavilion he was leaning against._

_Not sure in his ability to form an adequate reply at the moment, Melford simply nodded and took a step forward. Norton mirrored his nod and walked back into the pavilion._

_It took him a few moments to cross the distance, and soon he was already inside, standing in a couple of steps from his boss._

_'Please, sit down,' Norman gestured towards the two chairs, positioned across from each other. 'You've got a lot of questions, I bet. And I'll be more than happy to provide the answers.'_

_The PA narrowed his eyes. His boss was evidently acting out of character, and Damian decided to tread carefully. 'After you, sir.'_

_The corners of Norton's lips twitched up into an amused smile. 'You can skip the formalities, my dearest Damian. Just call me Norman. And, before you ask – I'm not who you think I am.'_

_'Well, I kind of figured that out,' the younger man quipped, causing the older man to roll his eyes in exasperation._

_'I'm sure you did,' Norton said calmly, reaching towards the table for a glass of water. 'So you don't need me to elaborate on this statement, I take it?'_

_'On the contrary,' Melford finally decided to take Norman up on his offer and, reaching a chair in a couple of steps, sat down and leaned back, crossing his arms on his chest. 'Do enlighten me, please.'_

_Taking a sip from his glass, Norton put it back on the table and gracefully lowered himself into the chair, placing his arms on the armrests. 'It's good to know you've kept your wit, Damian. And although my other self tried it's best to break you, I'm pleased it didn't succeed.'_

_Damian tilted his head to the side. 'Your OTHER self?'_

_His vis-à-vis nodded but made no attempt to elaborate._

_Intrigued, the PA uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. 'It actually makes sense..,' he said thoughtfully. 'Your clothes, the feeling of safety you give, the manner of speaking… You are Norman Norton – and at the same time you're quite different. So who are you?'_

_Norton didn't change his pose, but Damian could clearly see some tension leaving the other man's body. 'Excellent question, my dear Damian. Norman Norton has a split personality: one part is the person he was before he received The Gift – and that's me; the other is the one he's now. But there's also the third part – the Dark One; it came into existence after the moment he met that maniac…'_

_Apart for a slight quirk of an eyebrow, Damian's expression remained the same, but for Norman that small movement spoke volumes. He had the younger man's undivided attention, and – which was more important – Melford was taking him seriously._

_Answering the unasked question with a slight nod, Norman continued his narrative. 'Technically, the third part came into existence when I was in charge. I was sixteen or seventeen at that time – young, too curious and too reckless. Exactly what he needed,' a sad smile touched the older man's lips. 'I didn't even know his real name. He kept me in a small room in the basement – for a month or so, I can't say for sure. Somehow I managed to escape, and my parents found me aimlessly wandering the streets. According to them, I was in awful shape and couldn't even utter a word. They questioned me about my tormenter, but to no avail – after my escape I had a massive nervous breakdown and, apparently, erased all information concerning the period of captivity. At least that's what my therapist said.'_

_'Well, judging by the existence of the third personality, you just locked those memories deep inside instead of erasing them,' Damian commented softly. 'You left them uncontrolled, and they evolved into another personality…'_

_Norman nodded. 'It broke free after my clinical death. It helped me to survive, to hold on until the rescue team came looking for me. And, ironically, the Shifter answered its call.'_

_'So when the Shifter saved you..,' Melford trailed off, realisation dawning._

_'My dark side used his power against me, creating a new persona. I became a prisoner inside my own mind,' Norton confirmed. 'But the Dark One miscalculated: instead of creating a slave, he unleashed a monster.'_

_'So, instead of getting a main role..,' Damian began with an understanding, and Norman nodded._

_'It got pushed back inside its mental prison cell. Unfortunately, along with me.'_

_'Not exactly the best company in the world, I imagine,' the younger man commented, and then a slight frown creased his forehead. 'So if you were trapped inside the mind of a new Norton's persona, how come that you're here and talking with me now? Because I'm pretty sure I'M still inside MY mind.'_

_'Of course,' Norton agreed with a smile. 'More than that, you are still trapped behind the wall my other self created.'_

_'Nonsense,' Damian shook his head. 'My wall managed to integrate itself into it, and I destroyed both with my…'_

_'Just take a look outside,' Norman interrupted, raising his arm. Melford looked at him with suspicion for a few moments, but then followed his request, turning his heat towards an entrance of the pavilion. The older man snorted and snapped his fingers._

_Nothing changed at first, and Damian opened his mouth, fully intending to deliver a cutting retort._

_Then he saw it. It started in the distance, and quickly moved towards them: the barren landscape was fading, replaced by a white opaque mist, and soon only their pavilion remained, seemingly floating on air._

_Norton snapped his fingers again – and Melford found himself sitting on the floor of his self-created sanctuary with the wall still intact. The only difference was that Norman was sitting beside him, cross-legged and annoyingly calm._

_In one smooth move Damian twisted around, so he was now facing Norton, and grabbed the men by the shoulders._

_'Explain,' the PA demanded, looking straight into the colourless eyes._

_Norman casually shrugged his gripping hands off his shoulders and began speaking._

_'Do you remember the moment when you asked my alter ego about something he seemed to give to you when he was trying to strangle you?' the older man enquired, carefully taking the younger man's hands and beginning to stroke them softly._

_Melford, surprised, looked down at their hands and then back into Norton's eyes. 'Yes, I do,' he said slowly. 'He didn't answer. But what that's got to do…'_

_'He couldn't, because he had no idea what you were talking about,' Norman continued, paying no attention to Damian's obvious confusion. 'But I, on the other hand, can easily give you an answer. The thing you mentioned – it was me.'_

_Confusion rapidly transformed into a frown. 'I beg your pardon?'_

_'Don't worry, you heard everything right. When my counterpart was trying to choke the life out of you, he unconsciously created a direct connection – practically similar to the one you now have as soulmates. I felt that connection, and decided to, shall we say, trade my accommodations for better ones.'_

_'Are you saying you..,' Damian paused, searching for an adequate expression, 'switched minds?'_

_'Correct,' Norton confirmed, closing his fingers around the younger man's wrists gently and at the same time firmly. 'And actually saved your life in the process.'_

_'Distraction,' Melford nodded with understanding, not making any attempt to pull his hands free. He seemed to be enjoying this unexpected closeness, judging by a slight flush on his cheeks and his relaxed pose._

_'Exactly,' Norman said quietly. 'And don't be so upset about the wall. It's just an illusion, created for a sole purpose of protecting us.'_

_The older man's voice dropped to a soft whisper, and Damian felt his eyelids begin to droop. Alarmed, he tried to shake a sudden drowsiness off, but to no avail – the world around him began to fade._

_'Don't worry, I've got you,' Norton whispered, and Melford finally let everything go, slipping into a deep slumber. Norman caught him into his arms as he tipped forward, and then gently lowered his unresponsive body onto the floor._

_'Sleep, my dear Damian,' the older man said softly. 'The dawn is coming; we should be ready to take back what's ours. And you the only one who are able to do it. Sweet dreams, my friend. I'll be back soon.'_

_With that, Norton's phantom disappeared, leaving Melford alone and unconscious on the floor of his mental hide-out._

* * *

There are things that people are fond of; and there also things that irritate them. For Norman Norton one of the most irritating things was to be woken up by a direct sunlight. When he stayed in a hotel or rented temporary lodgings, he always made sure his bed stood away from any windows or, if that wasn't possible, then the curtains were tightly shut. He never explained this strange demand to anyone and, frankly, nobody dared to question him about it – for his subordinates it was just another order to fulfil. Such state of affairs suited Norton just fine and he didn't took to kindly when it was violated.

A first touch of sunlight on his face caused the banker to grumble in irritation, and he rolled over, trying to escape the annoying disturbance. A second later his brain kicked into gear, connecting the dots, and he opened his eyes in order to verify his conclusions. At the same time memories from the previous evening rushed back and, propping himself up on an elbow, he looked down.

Damian Melford was lying on the floor, tied and curled up into a ball. When he sneaked into his PA's room, Norman left the patio door slightly ajar, and small shivers were wracking the younger man's body constantly – he was cold despite being in his pyjamas.

A strange feeling akin of guilt stirred inside Norton, but he did his best to ignore it – there was no time for regrets when actions were required.

"Damian," he called out quietly but firmly, trying to get his soulmate's attention.

The result, however, was quite the opposite – Melford flinched and tried to curl up even tighter.

Sighing in frustration, the psychic closed his eyes and fell back onto the bed. His hidden identity obviously managed to make a mess, and now he was facing the necessity of sorting it all out.

A tedious but feasible task.

Closing his eyes and stilling his mind, Norman reached mentally towards his soulmate. The telepathic connection sprang back to life, and the psychic probed his companion's mind gently. Apart from the shielded part, everything seemed to be normal: the basic mind structures he created for a new Damian's personality were firmly in place, and the wall which entrapped the previous owner was solid as before.

Satisfied with his discoveries, the older man proceeded to the next stage of his plan.

' _Damian_ ,' he repeated, trying to soften his mental voice as much as possible. _'Damian, can you hear me?_ '

The man on the floor whimpered slightly, and then Norton heard an answer, delivered in a weak and trembling voice.

 _'Sir?_ ' there was a small pause. _'Sir, please, don't hurt me. I'll do everything you say._ '

The banker gritted his teeth and tried his best to remain calm; the last thing his newly acquired soulmate needed was to be lashed out at. _'Don't worry, my dear one, I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm really sorry for misunderstanding. How are you feeling?_ '

 _'I'm cold,_ ' Damian said plaintively. _'Please, sir, can you help me?_ '

Norton couldn't help but cringe in disdain. This new Melford was nothing but a pathetic wreck, a nuisance, a burden.

Useless.

The sooner he could get rid of this failure – the better.

Making sure his thoughts stayed hidden from Damian, the banker swiftly got out of bed and untied his unfortunate companion.

"Get dressed, my friend," he ordered, heading for the patio door. "We are leaving in a half an hour."

Norman didn't hear Melford's reply – for him it was already irrelevant. Getting back to his suite, he took his mobile and quickly dialled a number.

"Plan B. Execute," he said shortly and terminated the connection. A wolfish grin curved his thin lips. "Well, young Sherlock, let's see how you'd play this."

Meanwhile, the man in the adjacent room gracefully got to his feet, smiling mischievously.

"Oh yes," he said quietly. "Let's play, my friend. Let's play…"

* * *

Waking up in another body was… strange. Of course, Doctor John Hamish Watson already seen a lot of strange things during these last few days, but this one?

It seemed to absolutely top the others.

He refrained from scanning Greg Lestrade's body – although his 'medical side' was strongly advising to do that, - and opened his eyes.

There was something wrong with a sight before him, and a few seconds later he figured out what exactly seemed wrong.

He vaguely remembered falling asleep with Sherlock practically snuggling into him; now the dark-haired man was facing away from him, curled up in a foetal position almost at the edge of the bed. And something told him Sherlock wasn't just trying to maintain his personal space.

They clearly had a problem.

"You're right, I'm afraid," Mycroft Holmes said quietly, and John twisted around to look at him. "And I'm sorry, John. I should have predicted that."

"Good morning, Mycroft," problem or no problem, John Watson always tried to remain polite. "And… apology accepted," he grinned, noticing a spark of amusement in dark-grey eyes. "Well, since all the pleasantries seem to be over, let's just bloody solve it."

"With pleasure, my dear John," the older Holmes replied, walking to the opposite side of the bed and leaning down. "Sherlock!"

The man in question, roused so rudely, bolted upright in the bed and nearly knocked his sibling off balance, then proceeded to stare him down. "Mycroft."

There was another round of sibling rivalry looming on a horizon, and John hurried to disrupt the tension. "Uh, sorry to interrupt, but can we get straight to the moment where we solve the problem? Because I'm kind of getting hungry, and…"

He didn't have time to finish the sentence, because Holmes brothers gave a dual snort and reached out, pushing him off bed. The doctor hit the floor with an indignant 'Ow!' and scrambled to his feet, all the time being surveyed by the two pair of eyes.

"Sorry, John, but the temptation was too strong to resist," Mycroft commented, trying his best to remain nonchalant. "Breakfast is already being served in the dining room. See you there in a ten minutes," with that he left the room without a backward glance.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably, then looked away. _'John…_ '

 _'Later, Sherlock_ ,' the blond interrupted, looking down at his attire in displeasure. _'I need a shower and fresh clothes. See you in a dining room._ '

The doctor beat a fast strategic retreat, living his soulmate alone in the room.

"So, I'm not the only one with a problem, my dear friend," the dark-haired man said quietly. "Interesting."

Nothing else had been said after that. But a second later the doctor stumbled on the stairs, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of warmth through his whole body.

' _Don't worry, my Quiet One,'_ Sherlock's voice whispered in his mind. _'We are the two sides of the same coin now. Whatever the problem, we'll solve it. You just need to trust me. Whatever happens. Can you promise me that?'_

 _'Of course, but why are you asking?'_ John stopped, puzzled by his soulmate's strange request.

 _'Just in case,'_ Sherlock replied softly. _'See you in the dining room.'_

The blond shook his head and continued climbing the stairs. Sherlock never said anything without a reason; and for John trusting Sherlock was the most natural and essential thing in the world – they were soulmates, after all.

He just hoped his trust and faith were enough, otherwise…

No. That was not going to happen.

They were going to prevail, whatever happened. They simply had no other choice.


	23. Rules of Sharing

Finishing his ascent, John walked towards the door of his room. He already reached out to place his hand on the handle, when Greg's mental chuckle almost made him jump.

_'Sorry, John, I didn't mean to startle you,'_ the DI sounded genuinely apologetic. _'But it's the wrong room. No offence, but I don't think your size would fit.'_

_'Huh?'_ the doctor replied absentmindedly, still a bit distracted by Sherlock's strange question.

_'Clothes, John,'_ Greg explained patiently. _'Last time I checked, we weren't exactly twins.'_

The blond groaned and rolled his eyes. _'Not you too, Greg. Sherlock never misses an opportunity to point out our difference in height; if you're going to follow his example…'_

_'Nothing of the kind,'_ Greg interrupted with clear notes of warmth. _'Just making sure you won't look like an idiot.'_

Only then did John realise in astonishment that he seemed to be already accepting Lestrade's body as his own.

_'Sorry,'_ he said, feeling embarrassed and not trying to hide this: it was no use doing anyway. But there was, however, one thing he definitely needed to ask about.

_'How come..,'_ he began after a moment of brief hesitation, only to be again interrupted by the DI.

_'Not the slightest idea,'_ his host replied promptly. _'But there are always exceptions to the rule, I guess.'_

Not entirely convinced, the blond doctor nodded absentmindedly and turned around. _'So where's your room, Greg?'_

_'One floor down, same side of the castle,'_ the DI answered immediately. _'I should've woken up earlier. Then you wouldn't have to waste your time climbing here.'_

_'Don't worry, Greg, it wasn't such a waste,'_ John objected, walking downstairs and crossing the corridor towards what he assumed to be the DI's room. His host didn't make any attempts to redirect him, so his choice was obviously the right one. A few moments later he was pulling the door open and stepping inside.

Although the design of the room was similar to John's, it was slightly smaller and felt a bit… uneasy, for the lack of a better word.

_'I guess they don't use these quite often,'_ Greg commented, having obviously heard John's thoughts. _'Except for Sherlock's, of course. I have a feeling he sort of leaves a permanent marker in any place where he stays even for a short period of time. Not in a physical sense, of course, although sometimes that also can be the case.'_

_'You mean his manner of acting like he owns the place,'_ John suppressed his urge to nod again. Despite the unusual situation, he needed to act like a normal person, and that definitely excluded having an animated mute conversation with himself. At least, not when he was on public.

_'Exactly,'_ Greg agreed, giving no indication of noticing John's slight problem. _'He's all about showing off and making a point. As if he feels he should prove himself worthy to each and every person he meets along the way. Granted, you can't tell that right away, but I've known him long enough to see through this whole facade he usually puts on.'_

John stopped half-way towards the wardrobe and shook his head. _'And he has another impressive talent: making friends despite his annoying arrogance. Thanks for helping us, Greg.'_

_'It's the least I can do, John. You're making it sound like something heroic. It's not, believe me,'_ the DI said immediately. _'Now, about clothes: there's actually a nice leather outfit I spotted in the wardrobe, and I'm dying to try it on. Let's shake them up, John. I think this Norton, or whoever he is, has become too much of a stormy cloud on our horizon. It's time to correct that.'_

As soon as Greg mentioned the leather outfit, John couldn't help but imagine his friend in a stylish leather jacket and equally visually appealing leather trousers.

The sound with which the DI reacted on the doctor's mental image could probably be qualified as a mental whistle. _'That's really flattering, John, but I was thinking only about a jacket. Specifically about the one I saw in the wardrobe. It's not as trendy as yours, but it would do just fine, I think.'_

_'Considering your usual attire – it would do more than just fine,'_ John walked the last steps to the wardrobe and, opening it, saw the jacket in question. _'OK, now I see what you mean. Any ideas as to what we're going to complete this beauty with?'_

Greg was silent for a few moments, and John just waited patiently, not wanting to rush his friend. To tell the truth, he wasn't at all surprised by this 'Greg isn't dormant' thing – considering that both Holmes brothers were involved, that was hardly unexpected. With these two, things tended to go haywire four times out of six.

_'Still with me, John?'_ Greg's polite enquiry brought the doctor back to reality. _'I was thinking jeans and a white t-shirt. Just to complete the effect.'_

John's imagination helpfully displayed the result of such combination, and Lestrade reacted with an amused chuckle. _'If I didn't know you better, John, I would've thought you're trying to woo me.'_

The doctor simply couldn't help it – he broke into a bout of honest belly laughter. Suddenly, it all was just too much for him – being in Greg's body and trying to regard it as absolutely normal while actively discussing the choice of clothes with the owner of said body (who was supposed to be dormant, by the way).

_'That's the spirit,'_ Greg said fondly. _'As for jeans and the t-shirt, you can easily find them on the shelves on the right.'_

John chucked his clothes, made a swift detour into the bathroom to take a shower and, returning a few minutes later, pulled their chosen clothes out of the wardrobe. It took him several more minutes to don them, and soon he was standing in front of a full-length mirror, captiously looking himself over.

_'Just take it easy, John,'_ Greg advised, feeling his friend's hesitation. _'We look great, there's no reason to tie yourself in knots over this.'_

John straightened the jacket and buttoned it up. _'You're right. Besides, we have more pressing matters then worrying about clothes.'_

_'Of course,'_ Greg agreed. _'Speaking of which: how about joining the others for breakfast? I don't think it would be polite to keep them waiting.'_

John nodded and, turning away from the mirror, crossed the room towards the door. Placing his hand on the handle, the doctor pulled the door open… and almost yelped in surprise.

Sherlock, who stood just outside the door, tilted his head to the right. "Sorry, John. May we come in?"

John frowned at the strange request, but a second later saw Mycroft standing behind his younger sibling. "Sure," he took a step back, allowing Holmes brothers to pass. "But isn't there supposed to be breakfast?"

"It's already being served in the dining room," Mycroft confirmed. "But Sherlock needed to clarify some details, and you know perfectly well he prefers not to eat while he analyses. It won't take long."

"Let's talk, then," the blond walked to the bed and sat down, waving his hand in the direction of two armchairs near the window. "I don't think I need to tell you to make yourselves at home, do I?"

Sherlock grinned and turned to look at his brother. "Sarcasm?"

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly. "Most likely, but that's completely understandable," the older Holmes moved towards one of the armchairs and made himself comfortable.

Not deigning that with the answer, the dark-haired man strolled casually to the other armchair and plopped down. "John, we need to talk."

"No kidding," the doctor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh, and I have something to tell you too, by the way."

A slight frown creased Mycroft's forehead, and he looked at John intently. "Something is not going according our plan, I gather."

John snorted. "Never doubted your intellect, Mycroft. How about telling Sherlock the news?"

For a moment, the detective's face displayed mild agitation at the fact of Mycroft having an advantage once again, and then he was perfectly calm again. "Yes, Mycroft, do tell me the news."

"You have exceptional deducting skills, Sherlock; use them," the older Holmes replied, leaning back in his armchair and folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and a moment later focused his inquisitive gaze on his soulmate. Two minutes passed in complete silence, then the dark-haired man took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

A few seconds later John felt it – his soulmate was reaching out with his mind, enveloping him in soothing warmth and slipping past his mind shields. Greg was silent at the moment, but the doctor could feel his presence. It was a matter of time…

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly, opening his eyes and fixing John with a piercing gaze. "Amazing."

_'Mind if I have a word with him, John?'_ Greg asked, pulling the doctor out of almost trance-like state he seemed to fall into. _'I have an idea about how we should play it out with Norton.'_

_'Of course,'_ John replied, still enjoying in his soulmate's protective mental embrace. _'Just tell me what to do.'_

_'Well, I was thinking along the lines of you simply taking a step back, and me stepping forward,'_ Greg's voice sounded a bit uncertain. _'I'm not an expert here, but it somehow seems like a right thing for us to do.'_

_'You don't sound convinced, Greg,'_ the doctor remarked thoughtfully, already in the process of visualizing how the DI's suggestion could be put into practice.

_'That's because I bloody am not,'_ Greg retorted momentarily. _'But we need to find the way for this whole lifeboat thing to work. We're both in a process of getting used to it, so why don't we experiment a little?'_

_'Never thought I hear the word 'experiment' from you,'_ John snorted, feeling surprisingly relieved by Greg's positive attitude. _'I have a strong suspicion Sherlock managed to tamper with something while he and the Shifter were getting me into your body.'_

Predictably enough, the man in question made quite a show out of a habitual rolling of his eyes. _'In case you both failed to observe, I'm still here. And although I'm flattered by your assumption, John, I should disappoint you. I'm in no way responsible for Greg being so inquisitive.'_

_'Ahem!'_ recognising the telltale signs of an impending verbal sparring, the DI hastened to cut in. _'Back on track, boys. John, are you ready?'_

_'Of course, Greg. Ready when you are.'_

It took merely a moment for the doctor to concentrate, and then he pulled back, allowing Greg's mind to take the wheel. The DI handled the exchange carefully, supporting John and helping him settle into a temporal passive state. But he wasn't the only one doing that: the doctor felt his soulmate's constant presence literally surrounding him and keeping him safe.

As always, the detective silently observed and catalogued data during the whole process. John as his soulmate was interesting enough, but now, with Lestrade brought in to the fold, he swiftly progressed into 'totally fascinating' category. So Sherlock watched as his John almost faded from view, becoming just a shadow at the back of the DI's mind and allowing Greg to take over. The change was really noticeable, especially on physical level: Lestrade habitually straightened his back and squared his shoulders, ready to state and defend his idea. Granted, even in DI's body John still had an air of confidence inherent to an ex-army doctor; but he was just a guest, whereas Greg remained an owner of said body. Besides, the doctor wasn't a part of military forces anymore, and civilian life mellowed and smoothed him out a tiny bit, in contrast to Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector on active duty.

Said man was now holding his head high and looking straight into Sherlock's eyes, but the young man could swear he saw something else in those dark eyes – or rather, he saw _someone_.

John. His soulmate, still with them.

But would he be able to understand why Sherlock did what he did? And more importantly, would he forgive him?

_'Do you realise that you're broadcasting those thoughts right at this moment, brother dear?'_ Mycroft's voice was soft, but reproachful. _'As I recall, you were the one to suggest keeping that small detail a secret; in that case your current behaviour seems to be a little inconsistent, don't you think?'_

_'If you have something to say, Shifter, do that in your own voice,'_ Sherlock retorted, quickly squashing down his agitation and pushing untimely thoughts out of his mind. _'My brother usually prefers to be more direct in his demands. Besides, even if I'm broadcasting, there's nothing new for John. He knows I tend to be reckless, and used to taking it all in stride.'_

_'In that case, shall I remove the blocking screen, then? If you're so sure John learning the truth isn't going to be a problem?'_ This time the Shifter spoke in his own deep voice, tinted with irony and amusement.

"Ahem!" that was Lestrade, looking a bit irked about the fact he wasn't being paid any attention. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I distinctly remember someone wanting to talk. Any chance of that happening in the nearest future?"

"Of course, but I have a counter-proposal," Sherlock replied immediately, throwing a quick glance in his brother's direction and receiving a slight nod in return. "Considering there are actually five of us, I'd suggest we continue this conversation elsewhere."

"And by 'elsewhere' you mean..," Greg enquired, already suspecting he won't like the answer.

"Dreamscape," Sherlock said succinctly, prompting an eye roll from Lestrade.

"I should have guessed," the DI murmured, and then said more loudly. "Well, if there's no other way, can it at least be somewhere comfortable? I'm not so fond of caves, you know."

"As you wish, Greg," the dark-haired man stood up, motioning his older brother to follow. Together they moved towards the bed and sat down, flanking Greg. "Now just close your eyes and relax. We've got you."

The DI's witty remark apropos of Sherlock's last sentence died on his lips when he felt two sets of arms closing around his body. The Holmes brothers shifted closer, practically sandwiching Lestrade between them and resting their foreheads against his temples. It felt a bit strange, but not unpleasant, and Greg followed Sherlock's request, closing his eyes and relaxing in Mycroft and Sherlock's protective embrace.

"Not too weird for your liking, I hope," the younger Holmes murmured in his ear, adjusting his hold.

"A bit, but after everything I've been through, it's practically normal," the DI replied with a snort.

"Welcome to our family's version of Wonderland, Inspector," the older Holmes commented, tightening his grip on both companions slightly. "Are we ready, gentlemen?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Sherlock responded, and in the next moment Greg felt as if they were falling, gliding through a thick mist. "Hold on, Greg, we almost there."

Lestrade didn't have time to respond, because right at that moment they collided with some kind of a wall, and his mind finally decided to black out…

* * *

_Awareness returned with a bright flash of light, but Greg wasn't in a hurry to open his eyes. According to the information his mind_ _helpfully_ _provided him with, his body was in horizontal position – probably laid down on the bed._

_He wasn't surprised by the fact he actually felt his body – after all, this wasn't his first experience in the dreamscape; more interesting matter right now was WHY exactly he was lying down._

_'Now I know for certain why I've never seen you behind the wheel, brother dear,' Sherlock's sarcastic voice broke into the DI's thoughts. 'As the British government, you're unbeatable; but as a driver, you're astonishingly lousy.'_

_Greg did his best to continue pretending to be unconscious and waited eagerly for Mycroft's response. The Holmes brothers were famous for their verbal sparring matches, having perfected them to a state of art; and everything indicated one of such matches was about to begin._

_Lestrade's hope, however, wasn't fulfilled: the other person spoke first, and a moment later the DI identified his voice – it was the Shifter._

_'Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that the joined driving effort?' Mycroft's lifelong companion enquired ingratiatingly. 'If that's so, it's a shared responsibility, Curious One.'_

_'I CAN drive!' Sherlock exclaimed stubbornly. 'John can confirm that.'_

_'Sure, no problem,' the doctor replied immediately. 'Now can we get back to waking Greg up and continuing our conversation?'_

_Lestrade took John's words as a signal to stop pretending and, opening his eyes, sat up on the bed. 'No need to bother, guys, I'm already awake.'_

_A quick reality check confirmed that they were still in Greg's room, with a small improvement – it now had a sofa near the wall by the door. It was occupied by Sherlock and John who sat close to each other with their shoulders touching. Mycroft and the Shifter were across the room, sitting in armchairs at the window. And finally, here was he, lounging comfortably on the bed._

_'Marvellous,' the younger Holmes clapped his hands and then casually put his arm around his soulmate's shoulders, earning a brief exasperated glance which John threw in his direction. 'Now about the talking. I know I said to John that we need to talk; but soon after that you mentioned something about knowing how to – and I quote, - how we should play it out with Norton. Care to elaborate on that?'_

_'Certainly,' Greg shifted on the bed until he was leaning back against the headboard. 'But I need to ask a couple of questions first.'_

_'About?' Sherlock obviously had taken the leading role and the others were silently allowing him to do it._

_'Has Norton found us using me as a beacon? And does he know John personally?'_

_'Yes and no,' Sherlock replied quickly. 'Why are you asking?'_

_'Just what I thought,' Lestrade bent his legs and hugged them to his chest. 'I hope you can bear with me, Sherlock, because during the next couple of days John will be hiding in plain sight.'_

_The dark-haired man tilted his head to the side and quirked up an eyebrow. 'Not what I would've called a sufficient explanation, but that's all we're going to get, isn't it?'_

_'For now – yes,' Greg was off the bed in one fluid motion. 'The rest can wait till we all have a proper breakfast. Are you with me, gentlemen?'_

_Mycroft was the first to react: raising up from his armchair, he walked towards the door. 'I told Sherlock the same, but we all know his eating habits. This door is the exit to the real world, Detective Inspector, and the dining room is two floors down. See you soon.'_

_Before Lestrade could reply, the older Holmes pulled the door open, flooding the room with the bright light. Greg, blinded momentarily, covered his face with his hands._

_'You shouldn't have used the portal, Dearest One; it's too much of a stress for the Quiet One and his host,' the Shifter's voice said softly, and that was the last thing Greg heard before the already familiar thick mist closed around him and carried him away…_


	24. Smoke and Mirrors

Just when you think nothing can surprise you anymore, life does everything to prove you wrong.

When Greg was roused by Sherlock's mental tickling earlier, he regarded it as the most fabulous thing that has even happened to him.

The lifeboat plan came as a second shock, forcing the DI to reconsider the situation on the subject of incredibility. But, considering that the main idea was to save John, the decision was obvious and Greg's acceptance came easily.

But waking up to an ongoing lively conversation in his head was quite another matter, especially because John was thoroughly scolding his soulmate.

_'What the hell were you and Mycroft thinking?'_ the good doctor's voice was harsh. _'He has barely recovered after Norton's attack, and you jeopardise his safety by your supernatural tricks!'_

_'Don't exaggerate, John,'_ Sherlock's voice, in contrast to John's, was calm and even a bit bored. _'He was perfectly safe, and besides, our Detective Inspector is tougher then he looks.'_

_'Oh, and that gives you the right to test his toughness?'_ John replied angrily. _'I don't think so!'_

_'Why don't you ask how he's feeling?'_ Sherlock said suddenly, and Greg heard a hint of a smile in the younger man's voice. _'He's awake and listening to us for about half a minute already.'_

The good doctor momentarily switched his focus onto Lestrade, and done it with such an intensity that the DI suddenly felt a bit light-headed. _'Greg! Are you okay?'_

_'Whoa!'_ Greg's eyes snapped open and he shook his head, mentally trying to step back from the stream of emotions John was directing at him. _'Easy, John. No need to drown me in your relief. I'm fine.'_

_'Sorry,'_ the doctor struggled for a moment, and then a thin mental shield appeared between them. _'Just give me a few moments. Talk to Sherlock – he has something to say to you.'_

_'Okay,'_ the DI replied simply, and turned his head to look at the younger Holmes, who was pointedly looking away and biting his lower lip. The police inspector opened his mouth, ready to set him at ease, but suddenly a thought occurred to him. _'Wait a minute, does it mean you were having a conversation while I was out cold?'_

Sherlock's gaze immediately focused on him, and one elegant eyebrow rose up. _'Is that a problem, Greg? Basically you and John sharing your body, so when you're asleep, John is still able to communicate with me. This time he used the opportunity to read me a lecture about mine and Mycroft's carelessness… He is right, and I'm sorry,'_ the last sentence Sherlock said hurriedly and quietly, but it was clearly meant for Lestrade to hear.

"John certainly is a good influence," Greg switched to speaking aloud – he was still a bit uncomfortable with this whole telepathy thing. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Unfortunately, if Norton manages to get here, you probably wouldn't be able to," Sherlock replied calmly. "So how about having breakfast and talking everything through? Are you up for that?"

"Absolutely," Greg waited for Sherlock to get up, then sprang from the bed in one smooth move. _'John, how are you?'_

_'Hungry, actually,'_ the doctor confessed. _'And so are you, if that sensation at the pit of your stomach is anything to go by. You need to eat, Greg. Doctor's orders.'_

_'No argument from me,'_ the DI turned to look at Sherlock. "So, the dining room?"

The younger man nodded and, turning around, walked to the door. "Follow me, Greg. And John, of course."

The doctor and the DI chuckled simultaneously, causing a smile to tug at the corners of Sherlock's lips. "Most amusing," the younger Holmes said curtly, and left the room.

* * *

When Sherlock and Greg reached their destination, Mycroft and Stanley were already waiting for them at the table. Doctor Barlow, however, stood up and went towards the DI as soon as he stepped into the room. The two men stopped, facing each other, and Lestrade allowed the sandy-haired doctor to check him.

Satisfied, Stanley took a step back and looked at Greg carefully. "John?" he asked after a brief hesitation.

_'Would you mind, Greg?'_ the ex-army medic asked politely, withdrawing his mental shield.

_'Not at all, John,'_ the DI relinquished his 'hold' on his own body and allowed his friend to step to the forefront.

Taking over, John closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again, locking gazes with Stanley. "Yes, Stan, I'm here."

"Good," Barlow shifted from one foot to the other. "Everything's okay?"

"Well, apart from the fact that Greg isn't asleep – yes," John answered calmly and, noticing a flicker of concern in Stanley's eyes. "Don't worry; we have already figured everything out and getting along just fine. I would be happy to tell you all the details after breakfast."

"Oh, of course," the sandy-haired doctor hurriedly moved out of John's way. "Sorry, I should've realised…"

"No need to apologise, Stan," John hastened to reassure the distraught physician. "It's the natural thing to worry about your patient's wellbeing – you're a doctor, after all. So I'm really grateful for your concern."

Sherlock, who was patiently waiting for them to finish the conversation, pointedly cleared his throat and, taking a step closer to his soulmate, put his hand on his shoulder. "If the two of you are quite finished with the pleasantries, how about proceeding to the next stage of our plan?"

"Excellent suggestion, dear brother," Mycroft said, leaving his place at the table and coming over to their small group. As soon as he got closer, John and Greg both realised why the older Holmes had done so – the Shifter's comforting presence seemed to surround them, gently probing their minds and making sure they were safe and sound after the recent journey to the dreamscape. Greg, not yet used to such type of interaction, instinctively pulled away; but the Shifter, obviously expecting such reaction, simply pretended not to notice the DI's reluctance and directly connected with John's conscience.

_'Are you well, Quiet One?'_ Shifter's voice was full of worry and compassion. _'Forgive me for allowing those two to subject you and the Detective Inspector to such an unnecessary ordeal…'_

_'We're both absolutely fine, don't worry,'_ John reassured their mentor. _'Living with Sherlock taught me to be prepared for anything that happens; and Greg has seen his fair share of unbelievable things in his line of work.'_

_'And yet you chose to reprimand the Curious One afterwards,'_ the Shifter objected softly. _'He is reckless, and sometimes tends to put into danger not only his own life, but also the ones of people closest to him. He needs to be guided and protected; otherwise he will eventually succumb to the force of self-destruction that is hidden deep inside his mind.'_

_'In that aspect me and Sherlock are the same,'_ John replied calmly. _'And that's the exact reason why we are together – we protect and take care of each other.'_

_'Yes, I know,'_ the Shifter confirmed. _'I've never met two beings which were so perfectly suited to be soulmates. It was the easiest choice that I've ever made.'_

_'The same could be said about you choosing Mycroft as your life-long companion,'_ the blond doctor replied warmly. _'Seems like fate has done us all a huge favour.'_

_'I'm sure you can praise each other all day,'_ Sherlock's voice cut into their conversation, accompanied by a grounding touch of the detective's hands on Mycroft's and John's shoulders respectfully. _'But we all have more pressing tasks at hand, I'm afraid.'_

_'We aware of that, Sherlock,'_ John replied patiently, taking a step back and therefore leaving Mycroft and Sherlock's personal space. _'Our mentor was just asking if I and Greg are alright after our last visit to the dreamscape.'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, stepping behind John and placing his hands on his soulmate's shoulders, simply propelled the smaller man towards the table. "Breakfast, John. We'll talk afterwards."

No matter how strong was John's desire to object, Sherlock had a point: considering the fact that Norton could literally appear at their doorstep at any moment, wasting time in pointless conversations certainly wasn't the wise decision. The other members of their small group, obviously coming to the same conclusion, followed suit. Silently, they all took their places at the table and began eating.

The breakfast didn't take long – the meal was simple but nourishing, and fifteen minutes later, when the table was cleared and attendants left the room, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and looked at Sherlock.

"So, shall we remain here, or move to the sitting room, little brother?" he enquired, tilting his head to the right and raising his eyebrow slightly.

"Well, we obviously need to use the dreamscape again, and I prefer to be comfortable while doing that," the younger Holmes rose from the table and headed to the door. "And besides, it's only two doors down the corridor, so the choice is clear."

"Agreed," the politician stood up and looked at Barlow. "I think you should return to your patient, Doctor. He is your responsibility; you ought to stay with him, no matter what happens, and protect him even at the cost of your own life."

The sandy-haired doctor paled a little, but nevertheless nodded in understanding. "Should I close the door to the basement, sir?"

"Yes, and change the code on the electronic lock," Mycroft instructed. "There is a panel near the door in the basement corridor. The procedure is not a complicated one – I think you can figure it out, Doctor Barlow."

"Yes, sir," Stanley got to his feet and left the room, muttering something under his breath on his way out.

Sherlock, who remained near the door during the conversation, looked at his brother pointedly. "You do realise that if Norton manages to get inside this house, no lock would stop him from reaching his goal?"

Mycroft held his gaze calmly without saying a single word. His only reaction was a slight smile, but it actually resulted in Sherlock raising his hands in a placating gesture and taking a step back with a quiet 'I was just saying'.

The thing was, the younger Holmes considered himself an expert in recognising his older sibling's expressions, and this particular one meant 'No trespassing: highly confidential matter'. Usually it failed to stop Sherlock from confronting his brother and attempting to get the information by any means necessary. But at this exact moment, looking into his brother's steely eyes, the dark-haired man understood that to use his favourite strategy now would be the most unwise thing in the world. Mycroft always based his decisions on irrefutable arguments, and now, when Norton was literally looming on the horizon, taking measures to protect John's body was one of the main priorities. Mycroft obviously predicted that: if only Barlow would know the new combination, there will be no danger for anyone of them to incidentally reveal it to their enemy.

Filing this revelation as 'problem solved', Sherlock broke the eye contact with his brother and turned to look at his soulmate, who was still sitting at the table and watching them intently. For now, it was John; Greg remained it the background, waiting for the moment when he would be allowed to explain his new idea to the rest of their small company. Curious as to what exactly the DI had in mind, Sherlock motioned for Mycroft and John to follow him and, stepping out into the corridor, headed towards the sitting room. John immediately hurried after his partner, catching up with him near the door, and Mycroft, shaking his head slightly, joined them a moment later. By that time the younger Holmes already had his arm around his soulmate's shoulders and was whispering something into his ear. Mycroft waited a few seconds, and then pointedly cleared his throat, causing the two men to pull apart, albeit unwillingly.

"I'm well aware of the two weeks period, Sherlock," the older Holmes said softly. "But for now I need you to concentrate on neutralizing Norman Norton."

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Mycroft," the detective responded, moving closer to his soulmate again. "John's wellbeing is the essential part of our success, so I'm simply fulfilling my duties."

"That's reassuring," the politician commented, reaching out and opening the door to the sitting room. "In that case, shall we proceed to the next stage of our plan?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock agreed and, putting his arm around his partner's shoulders, towed him along into the room. "We'll take the sofa, Mycroft."

"Of course, Sherlock," the older Holmes walked to the armchair across from the sofa and sat down. "Make yourself comfortable, gentlemen."

The soulmates accepted his invitation and settled on the sofa with Sherlock's left arm around John's shoulders. The doctor was in full possession of the DI's body now, and Sherlock, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to see John's colours, cranked up his extrasensory perception. Remembering the last occasion, he expected to see the magenta again; but his soulmate surprised him once again by radiating the deepest navy blue.

"Amazing, John," he whispered, leaning closer. "How about taking us into the dreamscape? I think you are ready for that. Don't worry; I will help you if necessary."

"Okay," John said simply. "But you got to tell me how to do that; I'm not an expert, you know."

Sherlock turned, resting his chin on John's shoulder, and half-closed his eyes. "Do you remember the time when you extended you shield in order to protect the three of us?"

John half-turned his head and looked at his soulmate. "Of course. Do you want me to do it again?"

"Yes, but not with your shield," the younger man put his right hand on his partner's left shoulder and shifted closer. "Let me show you something."

John nodded wordlessly, and Sherlock sent a visual of John's colour through their mental link.

"Oh my god," the blond doctor whispered in total awe. "Are you telling me I'm actually projecting this?"

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. "All you need to do is widen your range so it would include Mycroft."

John licked his lips nervously. "Okay, I… I'll try."

"I'll keep the visual running so you can adjust your energy field if necessary," Sherlock said quietly, keeping his voice soft and lulling in order to put his soulmate in a trance-like state. "Just relax and let everything go."

John did just that; but before the world around him disappeared into the deepest blue he's ever seen in his life, there was a sound of an armchair being moved closer, and Mycroft's softly spoken words wormed their way into the doctor's slipping conscience.

_'You are safe, John. Just lead us in.'_

He obeyed, and the real world faded away in a flash of navy blue…

* * *

_"John!" Sherlock's voice called his name urgently. "John, wake up. You did it. Just open your eyes."_

_The doctor took a deep breath and tried to open his eyes. Everything felt fuzzy, except for his soulmate's solid presence at his side. Sherlock's cool hand touched his forehead and lingered there, grounding John and helping him to concentrate. Gradually, his vision cleared and, looking around, he saw a perfect replication of the sitting room – except for the fact that there were all five of them: Greg and the Shifter were sitting in the armchairs on either side of Mycroft._

_The older Holmes leaned forward in his armchair, watching the doctor closely. "How are you feeling, John?"_

_"Better," the ex-army medic carefully tugged his soulmate's hand from his forehead and entwined their fingers. Sherlock readily went with the flow and rested their intertwined hands on John's thigh._

_"Excellent," satisfied, Mycroft settled back. "Shall we pay attention to our Detective Inspector now?"_

_The whole group simultaneously looked at Greg and, suddenly a bit self-conscious, he shifted awkwardly in his armchair, trying his best to look calm and confident. "Um… Well…"_

_His attempt to state his idea was interrupted by the Shifter, who abruptly sat straight in his armchair and raised his hand to attract everyone's attention. "My sincerest apologies, my dear ones, but I have an urgent matter I should immediately pay attention to. I won't be long," with that the Shifter closed his eyes and turned into a transparent hologram._

_"Great," Sherlock commented sarcastically, putting his arm around John's shoulders and tugging him closer._ _"Mycroft, what's going on?"_

_"Contrary to your belief, Sherlock, I'm not controlling my soulmate, nor I have a habit of spying on him," Mycroft replied calmly, crossing his arms on his chest._

_Sherlock didn't have time to reply: right at that moment the Shifter came back, a deep frown creasing his forehead._

_"Norton is not interested in killing Sherlock," their mentor announced without any preamble. "He is thoroughly disappointed in his recent soulmate and looking for another one. I think it would be easy for you to guess whom exactly he has in mind."_

_"Time for deception," Greg muttered suddenly, attracting everybody's attention._

_Mycroft was the first to react. "I beg your pardon?"_

_"He wants Sherlock to be his new soulmate, but Sherlock is bonded with John, right?" Lestrade asked thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the arm of his leather armchair._

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the right, pressing John closer against his side. "Your point, Greg?"_

_Not bothering to answer, the DI turned to the Shifter. "How much does he know?"_

_"He is aware of the damage he has done to you while he located Sherlock's hiding place," the Shifter replied. "And he also knows that someone made an attempt to save you."_

_Greg stopped drumming his fingers and leaned back in his armchair, putting his arms on the armrests."Then we need to convince Norton that John is in a process of dying and taking Sherlock with him."_

_The DI's words were met with a shocked silence. John was the first to recover, but all he could say was a slightly hysterical 'What?'_

_Greg looked at him with a slight smile. "Smoke and mirrors, John. Just smoke and mirrors…"_


	25. The Turnabout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note: to avoid confusion, I think I should explain something. John is now sharing Lestrade's body, and usually he is the active one, so while Sherlock sees the DI's visual appearance, the personality is clearly John's (unless it stated otherwise).
> 
> I hope it helps :) Anyway, on with the story

_For several moments, everyone was silent. Then a totally unexpected thing happened._

_Sherlock, who never was at loss for a word and never lost an opportunity to state his opinion on every matter, simply looked at his older brother in absolute confusion. Then his lips moved, forming a single word._

_"Mycroft…"_

_The older man simply held his gaze, the corners of his lips twitching up into a slight smile. Then Mycroft looked away, surveying everyone in the room intently and, reaching out with his hand, placed it on his soulmate's arm. The Shifter looked at him in an enquiry and, satisfied with what he saw, covered Mycroft's hand with his. This strange episode didn't last long, and Mycroft soon pulled his hand away, but, surprisingly, this whole thing helped Sherlock to take himself under control._ _The younger Holmes nodded at his brother slightly and, letting go of John, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees._

_"Waiting for the question, Greg?" Sherlock enquired, tilting his head to the side. "Mycroft always likes to point out that I tend to be dramatic; are you "following in my footsteps"?" the younger man made air quotes for emphasis._

_"Can't help it, being around you for so many years," the DI grinned. "As for the question, it's a fairly obvious one, so I should simply answer it, shouldn't I?"_

_"If it's not too much trouble," Sherlock matched Greg's grin with his own mischievous one._

_"Not at all, but I may need more information."_

_"Sure."_

_"So, Norton is aware of the damage he inflicted on me, and he knows that someone tried to save me, right?"_

_"Precisely."_

_"We need to tell him more when he gets here. We need to lure him into a trap."_

_Clearing his throat pointedly, Mycroft joined the conversation. "We would appreciate if you elaborate on your statement, Gregory."_

_"Of course," the DI paused, collecting his thoughts. "As I understand, you asked Stanley to guard John's body, even at cost of his life. But I think we should do exactly the opposite. Would Norton be able to detect that John isn't there?"_

_"He is quite powerful, but I think I have something that can, as you say, throw him off the scent," the Shifter said thoughtfully, attracting everyone's attention. "In your terms it's called a smokescreen. I can create an energy phantom and put it in the Quiet One's body. It will be enough to convince Norman Norton of the fact that the Curious One and his soulmate are at death's door. Norton's energy homing device, the one he put in Gregory's head, was designed to infest anyone who tries to eradicate it. When we were transferring the Quiet One's consciousness, I protected the Curious One from being contaminated. But I doubt that Norton is aware of this fact."_

_Sherlock looked totally unconvinced. "How can you know that? You said earlier that he's more powerful than you. Doesn't that mean he'd be able to sense the forgery?"_

_"Normally – yes, but let's not forget that he has bonded recently, and the result of this bonding wasn't as glorious as he imagined. The purpose of bonding is to unite two souls, making them both whole. Norman Norton failed to achieve that, and now he and his unlucky soulmate is suffering the worst fate – their bond is slowly tearing their very souls apart. Norton hopes that the Curious One will be his salvation. If he finds out that his supposed perfect soulmate is damaged by his very own homing device, he would go out of his way to save him. We should use this opportunity to our advantage."_

_"Sounds reasonable," Sherlock remarked thoughtfully, leaning back and steepling his fingers. This caused John to shift slightly in order to accommodate his soulmate's new position, and the younger man, nodding gratefully, rested one of his elbows on John's thigh. "Although I have a question. You said you're going to put the energy phantom in John's body to trick Norton. Considering the thing in his head, proving his terminal condition would be easy. But what are you planning to do with me? Of course I shall endeavor to act as a dying person, but I doubt it would look entirely convincing."_

_"Don't worry, Curious One, I have the means to help you with that," the Shifter smiled slightly and Sherlock frowned, already suspecting that he won't be ecstatic about their mentor's idea."I don't doubt your acting abilities, but, to ensure the success of our operation, we are going to take it a step further. As I mentioned earlier, I protected you from the effects of Norman Norton's homing device, but now we need to expose you to them for a brief period of time. It's bound to cause some pain, but I'll do my best to lessen the effects."_

_"Well, as long as you wouldn't cripple me – be my guest," interlacing his fingers, Sherlock lowered his arms. "Although the new setup suggests major changes in our strategy. Head-on collision seems to be replaced by hide-and-seek, isn't it?"_

_"It's only wise to be attentive to the situation around you and to make corresponding corrections in your course of action," the Shifter replied, smartly confirming the younger man's assumption."Speaking of actions: I think it's time us to leave this cozy place and take care of the matters at hand. I'll explain everything when we get into the basement."_

_"Which can be a bit problematic," John remarked suddenly, attracting everyone's attention. "I mean, Mycroft ordered Stanley to change the code. How are we going to open the door if we don't know it?"_

_The older Holmes shifted in his seat, shaking his head slightly and clicking his tongue. "John, do you really think I could leave such an important matter to the mercy of fate? I always have a backup plan; you should known that by now. Even the most complex code could be overridden. The lock on the basement door has a reset mechanism based on a voice recognition technology. I think you can easily guess whose voices it attuned to."_

_As soon as Mycroft said that, Sherlock grinned, obviously remembering something connected with his brother's explanation. The older Holmes, in turn, looked at his sibling with an expression of a mild disapproval, which caused the detective to chuckle quietly._ _"I could write an article about that day and those endless attempts Mycroft undertook to get me to properly say the required words. Maybe I'll tell you about that someday, but right now we should get back to reality and reset the basement lock."_

_"Excellent suggestion, dear brother," the politician nodded, raising his hand. "May I?"_

_"Of course, but do try to make our exit comfortable, Mycroft," Sherlock commented coolly. "John read me quite a lecture the last time, and I'm not eager to listen to it again."_

_"I tend not to repeat my mistakes, Sherlock," the older Holmes said coldly and snapped his fingers…_

* * *

The first thing Greg thought about when they left the dreamscape was that despite their patented bickering, the Holmes brothers really cared, and not only about each other. This time Mycroft transferred all of them into the reality by means of a soft cloud, which closed around their small company like a comfortable cocoon. For a moment the DI wondered if it was possible to suffocate inside the imaginary cloud, but, luckily for him, their journey was short. In addition to that, John almost immediately asked if he was okay and also if he could clarify some moments in the smokescreen scenario. Right after that Sherlock unceremoniously broke into John and Greg's mental conversation, reminding that they had the code to reset and demanding John's total attention and support during the preliminary stage of their operation, which he already nicknamed "The Bogus".

Mycroft patiently waited while the three of them argued about what they should do first, but even his perfect self-control couldn't take more than two minutes, and he ended the discussion by confidently ushering them out of the room.

On their way to the basement Greg and John did the already familiar "stepping-forward-moving-back" dance, with John taking complete control. The lock stopped the small group for less than a minute, during which Mycroft uttered a sequence of letters and numbers. The lock chimed three times, then the LED display went blank for a few seconds before showing a prompt for a new code. Mycroft quickly pinched in the combination, and the heavy door opened, revealing a bit frightened but at the same time very determined Stanley Barlow.

"Change of plan, Stan," John stepped forward, placing his hand on the physician's shoulder to reassure him. "We decided to put on a show for Norton, and we need your help with that."

"Anything you need – just name it," the sandy-haired doctor visibly perked up at the prospect of being able to do something useful. "Where are we going to do it?"

"For now – in John's room," Sherlock said shortly. "All you need to know is that you're going to monitor mine and John's condition and take necessary measures if something goes wrong."

"Pretty much my job description," Barlow remarked, turning around and making his way to the ICU room. "I'm keeping John in a drug-induced coma, but his vitals are stable, there weren't any anomalies. Do I need to reduce the anaesthetic?"

"It is irrelevant to our plan, Doctor Barlow," Mycroft replied, following him. "Our main concern is Sherlock; there are going to be some manipulations applied to John's body, but they will be minimal. In my brother's case, however, the physical condition is surely expected to worsen."

The sandy-haired doctor stopped short and turned around. "And you expect me to help with THAT? It's against the Hippocratic oath!"

"There is no need to be so dramatic, Doctor," the politician frowned in mild irritation. "If there was any other way, we would've undoubtedly used it. Unfortunately, there isn't, so please spare us your rightful indignation and get to work."

The older Holmes' icy glare equaled his cold voice, and Barlow involuntarily took a step back, as if trying to escape a sudden gust of a frosty wind. "Well, if it's necessary, then I have no choice but to comply. But I strongly disagree…"

Mycroft didn't let him finish. "Yes, Doctor, you made it absolutely clear. Now, if you wouldn't mind, we would appreciate you helping us to prepare for Norman Norton's visit."

Sherlock, who watched this debate without saying a single word, finally decided to put one in. "Don't worry, Stanley, I've been through much worse. Just take a good care of me and John and punch Mycroft if he manages to spoil anything."

"Very amusing, Sherlock," Mycroft said acidly. "Shall I send you to meet Norton on your own?"

"Mycroft," John said quietly. "We are getting sidetracked. Probably I shouldn't mention that, but Stanley has a reason to be concerned – two patients under his care instead of one mean more responsibility. As for Sherlock, you know how he reacts when something doesn't go according to the plan."

The ex-army medic did nothing more than stating obvious facts, but it seemed to set the rest of the small company at ease. Barlow looked at John with gratitude, and both Holmes visibly relaxed.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft replied simply. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

Stanley moved first, leading the rest of their group into the room. Mycroft and Sherlock followed suit, but John hesitated a few moments before finally, and a bit hesitantly, trailing after his soulmate. It's not every day that one gets to see his body lying on a hospital bed while his consciousness is happily sharing the body of another human being.

It wasn't as awful as he imagined: although the skin seemed too pale, the face of his physical shell looked peaceful and tranquil. For a brief moment John considered the possibility of never being able to return to his body, and Sherlock immediately reacted by moving closer and placing his arm around John's shoulders.

"Don't worry, John," the dark-haired man murmured quietly. "We'll get you back, I promise."

"I hope so," the doctor replied, looking at his soulmate. "Because Greg doesn't deserve to spend the rest of his life dreading the moment when he'll have no choicebut to kick me out in order to survive."

"Let's not think of a worst case scenario," Sherlock escorted his soulmate to the comfortable armchair hear the bed and, pressing lightly on his shoulders, made him sit down. "Now hush. I need you to be near when our mentor exposes me to Norton's brain-eating thing. Just let me pull up another armchair."

Hearing their conversation, Stanley moved to the armchair which stood in the corner of the room and rolled it easily towards Sherlock. The great detective accepted the armchair with a grateful smile and manoeuvred it into position alongside John's. When everything was ready, the younger Holmes sat down and took his soulmate's hand, entwining their fingers.

"We are ready," the dark-haired man announced, squeezing his partner's fingers slightly. "Mycroft, I think it's time for you to let our mentor out."

Sherlock was habitually provoking his brother, and the older Holmes, as always, politely ignored him. Closing his eyes, Mycroft took a deep breath and stilled.

A moment later Mycroft was gone, and the Shifter looked at them with his inhumanly blue eyes. _'Fear not, Chosen Ones, the procedure would take a few moments, and I do my best to lessen its effects.'_

_'Ah, yes, about that,'_ John reacted promptly. _'Care to tell us what exactly are we going to feel? I know you mean the Curious One no harm, but it's always good to be prepared for anything, you know…'_

_'A slight headache, possible nausea,'_ the Shifter said softly _. 'Metaphorically speaking, the one you call Greg Lestrade found himself in the centre of an explosion, while your experience would be similar to an echo of the blast wave.'_

_'Interesting explanation,'_ John commented calmly. _'Although not a very reassuring one, because blast waves can be quite harmful, I know it from personal experience.'_

_'You said yourself that I mean the Curious One no harm. And we will be near to support him,'_ the Shifter replied. _'Now, shall we begin?'_

John and Sherlock nodded in unison, and the Shifter took a step towards the bed with John's physical body. Gracefully bending over the bed, the entity in Mycroft's body placed his hands on the doctor's solar plexus and forehead.

Knowing that John couldn't see streams of energy that constantly flowed around them and in them, Sherlock concentrated and broadcasted everything that he saw directly in John's mind. The blond doctor gasped in surprise and leaned closer to his soulmate, tightening his hold on Sherlock's slender fingers. The younger Holmes didn't try to break his partner's crushing grip – it was just a small inconvenience comparing to what they saw right now.

At first, nothing happened, but a few moments later the Shifter's hands began to glow faintly. With each second the glow became brighter, gradually turning into a full-blown halo, and soon Sherlock was forced to tune his energy perception down to avoid the sensory overload.

The Shifter, meanwhile, spent a few more minutes accumulating the energy charge on his hands, and then, spreading his fingers wider, sent it forth into John's body. Penetrating John's physical shell, the energy started to spread from the area of the solar plexus up, going straight to the damaged brain. The Shifter moved one of his hands correspondingly, guiding and concentrating the flow. In mere moments John's head was flooded with light, and as soon as it happened, Sherlock cried out in pain and doubled over, pulling his hand out of his soulmate's grip.

Suddenly bereft of Sherlock's closeness and acting on an instinct, John slid out of the chair, landing on the floor and moving around until he was on his knees in front of his soulmate. Sherlock, whose pain abated to the point when he could understand the surrounding situation again, looked at John with a silent plea in his pain-filled gaze.

_'You can help him, Quiet One,'_ the Shifter's voice said softly in the doctor's head. _'You're a healer, this is your gift. Just use your hands.'_

Surprised and a bit doubtful, John looked down at his – or rather, Greg's – hands.

He? A healer?

Well, he actually was a doctor, but he seriously doubted that…

_'You have powers that you aren't yet aware of, Quiet One,'_ the Shifter continued. _'But not knowing doesn't mean denying their existence. Just still your mind and allow yourself to feel.'_

Sherlock, who was watching his soulmate closely despite the searing pain in his head, couldn't stop a stifled moan from escaping his lips, and that was all the incentive John needed.

Closing his eyes, the blond doctor relaxed and focused his attention on his hands. A moment later he felt it – a slight tingling, spreading from the tips of his fingers and gradually enveloping both of his palms.

The younger Holmes, it seems, felt the change too, because he reached out with a slightly shaking hands and, closing his fingers around his soulmate's wrists, tugged his arms towards his sore head. John readily obeyed, carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls and pressing his palms against his partner's skull.

Sighing in relief, Sherlock slid out of his chair and joined his soulmate on the floor. John shifted slightly, accommodating his partner's new position, and, allowing the dark-haired man to rest his forehead against his shoulder, continued to gently stroke his fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair.

_'Better?'_ John asked sympathetically, half-hugging his soulmate with one arm and continuing his soothing ministrations with the other.

_'Uh-huh,'_ Sherlock replied succinctly, taking hold of John's hand and guiding it to show the pattern in which he desired to be stroked. _'Just keep it up a bit longer; I need to adjust my senses so this damned pain won't be such a drawback.'_

_'Whatever you need,'_ John agreed, not faltering in his smooth movements.

Right at that moment, a buzzing sound echoed through the room, and Mycroft's eyes regained his usual colour.

"Seems like our time is up, gentlemen," the politician announced calmly. "I set the alarm which should notify us of Norton's appearance near the castle. This sound means that he is already at our gate."


	26. The Balance of Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: To avoid confusion between Norton's personalities - Normi is the one who was created after the whole business with the kidnapper, Norman is a pre-psychic personality, and Norton is the one who came to life after the clinical death.

_**Earlier, Norton's hotel room** _

First stage of Norton's Plan B, which he just set in motion, basically meant the arrival of specially equipped helicopter to the country hotel. It required some time – about half an hour, by the banker's reckoning, and he chose to spend it in his room, preparing for the direct confrontation with the current residents of Holmes' family mansion.

Well, truth to be told, after his disastrous bonding, the psychic wasn't so sure about the whole 'confrontation' part. During the relatively short period, Norton's plan already suffered some changes: from the desire to destroy to decision about drawing Sherlock over to his side. But that was before the bonding; now his plan evolved into having the younger Holmes as his perfect soulmate.

However, there were at least two problems with this plan: the banker was still bonded with his PA, and said bonding set Norton's 'shadow self' free, causing him to destroy the younger man's personality. If it happened with Damian, there was no guarantee he would not damage Sherlock – provided, of course, that the psychic will be able to free himself from the previous bond.

There was, of course, a small problem with Sherlock being bonded as well, but Norton was hoping to solve both problems simultaneously. The younger Holmes was a genius, a rare creature, and, in Norton's opinion, he needed an equally brilliant soulmate – like Norton himself, for example. Not that the psychic doubted his potential soulmate's choice, but, according to the well-known saying, there was always room for perfection.

As for his and Sherlock's current soulmates, the banker decided that the best course of action would be to cross-bond the four of them. He never done that before – his bonding with Melford was his first, - but, taking into account the nature of the bond, there was always a room for experiment.

_'A boring one, if you'd ask me,'_ a voice drawled lazily in his head, and Norton rolled his eyes, instantly recognising its owner. His shadow self, yearning for action and trying to re-establish his rights on the psychic's body. That, of course, was absolutely unacceptable, and Norton made his way to the armchair: he needed to talk to his other self in the dreamscape, and this conversation obviously wasn't going to be short, so the banker decided to make himself comfortable.

Sitting down, Norton took a deep breath and closed his eyes…

* * *

_He wasn't surprised to find himself in the basement of his kidnapper's house. But there were differences: a big metal cage in the corner of the room, and its occupant. His doppelganger, his darker self – he even was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers, as if showing his nature._

_'Well-well-well,' the prisoner in the cage drawled, grinning. 'Long time no see. And you can call me Normi, by the way – as we both remember, it was his favourite name for me. Although I won't be surprised if you chose to forget this piece of information.'_

_'Not exactly the best thing to remember,' the psychic replied, heading towards the nearest chair and taking a seat. 'Alright, let's talk. You broke free during my bonding and caused me to seriously harm my soulmate. My potential perfect soulmate, who is now mentally damaged beyond repair. Do you have something to say on this matter?'_

_Normi walked to the far corner of his cage and settled down on the sofa, the crooked smile still curving his thin lips. 'Not exactly the most rational way of dealing with problems, old boy. I came out to play when the bonding was complete. You chose to tear that poor sod apart on your own, so don't scapegoat me.'_

_The banker looked at his counterpart for a few moments, narrowing his eyes slightly, and then allowed a small smile to appear on his face. 'Impressive, and exactly what I'd expected. Sorry for this test, but I needed to, shall we say, check your identity. You passed it. Now we can talk.'_

_Normi made a show out of crossing his legs, and looked at his double with an amused spark in his eyes. 'A test? Really? Must be something serious if you seem to be afraid of your own shadow.'_

_'I'm not afraid of you, I just don't trust you,' objected the psychic. 'So don't flatter yourself.'_

_His retort was met with a wordless rise of an eyebrow, and the black-clad man in the cage tilted his head to the right._

_Realising that this conversation wasn't going to bring any tangible results, Norton changed his tactic. 'So, what exactly did you mean when you called my idea boring?'_

_Normi uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 'Talking business now, are we? Well, since you mention it… I just don't think your exchange is going to give you a worthy companion. Young Sherlock is good, but he's far from perfect.'_

_'Perfection is relative, and depends on the viewer's opinion,' the banker replied, getting up and walking closer to the cage. 'Speaking of which: I think this room could do with a little improvement. Any objections?'_

_'None whatsoever,' his alter ego stood up as well and sauntered over. 'Can I give you a hand with this?'_

_Norton grinned. 'Both, if you don't mind,' with that the psychic raised his arms, pressing his palms against the iron bars of the cage. Normi followed his example, and a moment later the cage disappeared in a bright flash._

_When the light faded, they remained standing face to face, their palms pressed together. Normi was the first to react, closing his fingers around Norton's wrists and gently lowering his arms down. The psychic didn't say anything, opting instead for a quizzical look. Normi ignored it and finished his movement, releasing the other man's wrists and entwining their fingers instead._

_Norton narrowed his eyes. 'Care to explain?'_

_'Just making up for everything I was deprived of all that time,' Normi explained, continuing to hold his counterpart's hands. 'By the way: how about combining our efforts and making us into a whole?'_

_The psychic tugged his hands free and took a step back. 'For what purpose, exactly? I'm perfectly able to function on my own; why should I merge with you?'_

_Normi was obviously prepared for such turn of events: still smiling, he tilted his head to the side and put his hands on his hips. 'If you consider your actions perfectly functional, why are you trying to get rid of your bond with Damian? Why do you refuse to admit that the reason of your failure was your inability to control me?'_

_Adept at reading the body language, the psychic instantly classified his counterpart's pose as aggressive, and crossed his arms on his chest to show his resentment of such tactic. 'If you think you can achieve your goal by confronting me in such way, you're grossly mistaken.'_

_The black-clad man raised his hands in a placating gesture. 'Sorry. Bad habit. But you know me, so let's just chalk it up to my trying character and restart this conversation. I promise not to be naughty,' he clasped his hands behind his back and bowed theatrically, his whole posture broadcasting remorse and submissiveness._

_It looked a bit comical, and Norton chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. 'Somehow I pretty much doubt it, but we can at least try. So, you were saying?'_

_'Me. You. Together,' Normi straightened up and waved his arm between them. 'I'm offering an alliance. You're the boss, I'm the sidekick. How does it sound?'_

_'A proposal worth considering, I'd say,' the banker replied, taking a step forward and therefore getting into Normi's personal space. 'Unfortunately, time is exactly what we DON'T have right now, so we have to risk it. Agreed?'_

_'Thought you'd never ask,' smiling, Normi took his double's hand and led him to the sofa. 'Hope you don't mind getting comfortable for the procedure.'_

_Used to lead, this time the psychic accepted the passive role, and soon the two of them sat on the sofa, facing each other. Not breaking an eye contact, Normi rubbed his palms together slowly. Norton watched him with an impassive expression, waiting for his next move._

_Needless to say, he didn't have to wait long._

_'I know you're the boss here,' the black-clad man said softly, placing his hands on his knees. 'But just this once, let me take care of us both. You won't regret it, I promise.'_

_'That remains to be seen, but, as I said, I'm willing to give it a try,' the banker shifted slightly, getting comfortable. 'Proceed as soon as you're ready.'_

_'Perfect,' his double replied, leaning forward to place his left palm on Norton's forehead, and his right – over Norton's heart. 'Cold mind and warm heart – that's all we need, that's the ideal combination.'_

_The psychic was about to reply when suddenly he felt his alter ego's palms becoming hot and cold correspondingly to his words. It wasn't painful; a bit uncomfortable, perhaps, but bearable. Usually alert and careful, this time Norton let his guard down, deciding that he had nothing to fear; unfortunately for him, this time he made a crucial mistake._

_The change was so swift that the banker had barely registered it: just a brief flash of light, and then a sharp pain in his head forced him to pull back. Well, at least TRY to pull back: Normi prevented it by quickly grabbing his double's shoulders, and did his best to keep him in place._

_Right after that the pain became unbearable, and Norton started to slip away, but before his world went dark, he saw the third man near the sofa._

_The man, who was dressed in jeans, black turtleneck and a leather jacket._

_The man, who shared one important similarity with him and Normi._

_The man, who looked exactly the same as them._

_The psychic's third personality._

_'My turn to play,' the intruder said softly, and Norton's world went dark…_

* * *

_Meanwhile, or a few moments earlier, to be exact, in Damian's mental sanctuary the pre-psychic version of Norton was cautiously tapping into the other two personalities conversation. He needed to stop the psychic, and he had to do it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Melford was still too shaken after his disastrous bonding, and therefore couldn't be of any help, so the first version of Norton had to do everything on his own._

_The opportunity presented itself quite soon: the dark version of Norton, not at all happy with the inferior status, suggested merging as the way of creating strong and powerful persona. Normi, as the dark version called himself, obviously wasn't happy about the possibility of having Sherlock as soulmate, but without merging with the core personality he had no say in that matter. Realising that, Normi made the fateful decision, which, in turn, prompted the first Norton's personality to devise and set forth his own plan._

_As soon as Normi began the merging, pre-psychic personality used Damian's mental link as the gateway into the banker's dreamscape and, getting there in mere seconds, intensified Normi's energy field tenfold, causing the psychic unbearable pain and effectively knocking him out. Normi, who hadn't expected this, for a few moments remained sitting on the sofa, shocked and disoriented, and that was exactly what the sudden intruder needed._

_The man in the leather jacket took a step towards the sofa and laid his hand on Normi's shoulder. His touch wasn't threatening or painful – on the contrary, the black-clad man felt pleasant warmth, which started to spread through his body._

_While he was existing in Damian's mind unnoticed and unrecognised, the first Norton's personality learned a few useful tricks; the PA had a gift, after all, and said gift was far more formidable than he chose to show. Most of all the pre-psychic Norman liked the ability to manipulate energy streams: he mastered everything from a small energy ball to flexible but durable energy rope. With ropes he went even further, creating the energy net which he even had a chance to use once, covertly helping Melford to avoid being harmed by one of the banker's enemies._

_Now was the time to use the net again: Normi seemed to lose all his caution and remained sitting on the sofa, which gave the man in the leather coat so much needed advantage._

_Within few seconds Normi was incapacitated with the energy net woven tightly around his body._

_'What are you going to do with me?' the black-clad man asked, trying his best to remain calm and unruffled. Needless to say, he wasn't very successful in this task._

_Norman took his time before answering, and his prisoner swallowed nervously. The silent treatment lasted about a minute, and then Norman crossed his arms on his chest. 'I think you already have a few ideas about that. Well…,' he held another meaningful pause, 'worst of them can become true quite soon.'_

_A flash of fear appeared briefly on Normi's face, but he managed to overcome it. 'The worst scenario is my death, but you'd make the biggest mistake if you're going to choose it.'_

_'Oh, really?' Norman grinned, obviously enjoying this game of cat and mouse. 'and why do you think that, pray tell?'_

_Normi looked at the unconscious psychic pointedly. 'I'm not alone now, you see,' he said, risking a small smile._

_Norman glanced at the man in question, then back at Normi. 'I don't think so,' he replied, shaking his head and flashing his vis-à-vis a toothy grin. 'Hate to disappoint you, but your friend didn't finish the merging, otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here now.'_

_Normi paled and reached out to check the psychic's pulse. 'Did you…'_

_'No, I didn't,' Norman interrupted. 'I just knocked him out. But, alas, his time is about to run out. Don't worry; I'm not going to kill him right in front of you. I'm not even going to touch him – your merging attempt already did most of the work. All it took is a little tampering on my part.'_

_Normi's eyes now were open wide with fear. 'Are you going to kill me too?'_

_'Unfortunately for you, yes,' Norman smiled apologetically. 'I need to take you out of the picture, then I'm going to take your place, save him,' the man in the leather coat touched Norton's shoulder briefly, 'and finish the merging.'_

_Normi started struggling against the net frantically, and his captor was forced to tighten the bindings. 'Now, I wouldn't do that if I were in your place. Although the net isn't tight enough to be a source of any damage, it can cause you a lot of pain. But on the other hand, what difference would it make if your death will be painful or painless? You're going to die anyway.'_

_But Normi was already past the point where he could be reasoned with, so, to avoid further problems, Norman had to resort to the brute force. One half-blow, half-pinch to Normi's shoulder – and the black-clad man toppled sideways, completely paralyzed._

_It was time to proceed to the next stage of the plan, and Norman easily hoisted his helpless prey up, simultaneously reactivating the link with Damian's mind. To get Normi out of the picture and at the same time set Melford free – that was the most important thing right now; Norton was still out cold, and therefore could definitely wait while Norman finished his business with Normi once and for all._

_As soon as Norman established the connection, one of the walls in the room disappeared, having been replaced with a shimmering blue surface. When Normi saw that, he panicked again and tried to move – without any results at first, but a few moments later he managed to move his head a little._

_At that exact moment Norman lifted him up and adjusted his hold, intent to carry his helpless prey through the strange passage, and Normi, whose head was now resting on his captor's shoulder, instantly saw an opportunity for revenge._

_The effort took away all his strength, but finally the black-clad man moved his head a little closer to Norman's neck and, opening his mouth as wide as he could, sank his teeth into the soft skin._

_Judging by the painful hiss and a copper taste of blood in Normi's mouth, he managed to cause his captor some damage; however, his triumph was short-lived, because apart from the vocal reaction Norman showed no other sign of being hurt. They continued to move towards the shimmering wall, and Normi, not willing to surrender so easily, bit down again, deepening the bleeding wounds. Norman wavered a little, then righted himself and carried his carnivorous burden through the strange portal._

_As soon as they appeared on the other side, the man in the leather jacket immediately and rather forcibly parted with Normi, throwing him on the floor near the wall._

_As soon as Norman's hands were free, he reached towards his neck, touching the wounds carefully. They were bleeding sluggishly, red rivets running down his neck and soaking into the collar of his turtleneck, and as soon as Norman accessed the damage, his colourless gaze turned arctic cold._

_'Didn't expect such level of stupidity from you,' the man in the leather jacket said acidly, and a moment after that the whole situation became a bit more bizarre with Norman conjuring up an energy ball and hurling it at Normi._

_Dazed and helpless after his captor's rough treatment, Normi didn't even had time to blink before the small energy missile hit him square in the chest, practically plastering him to the wall. Then there was a sharp, unbearable pain in his heart, and after that nothing…_

_Norman watched impassively as his double was absorbed into the wall of his and Damian's prison. The energy ball did its job perfectly, terminating Normi's existence and at the same time freeing Damian from Norton's prison. As soon as the wall faded away, Norman walked towards the unconscious Melford, crouched down and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder, shaking him gently._

_'Damian,' the man in the leather jacket called softly. 'Damian, wake up. You're free and it's time for me to go; but there's still one favour I need to ask you.'_

_The PA opened his eyes slowly and, seeing the state of his unusual companion, immediately tried to sit up. '_ _My God, what happened?_ _Are you okay?'_

_Norman waved his arm dismissively. 'It was just a minor complication.'_

_'Minor,' Damian repeated sceptically. 'If a minor complication means that your neck is practically torn apart, I'm afraid to imagine what a SERIOUS complication is.'_

_'Doesn't matter,' the man in the leather jacket said in a voice which brooked no argument. 'Let's get back to business.'_

_'We will, but only when I take care of your wound,' Melford's voice was equally categorical._

_Norton rolled his eyes. 'I should have guessed you're not going to leave it alone. Okay, do your thing, but make it quick – time is of the essence.'_

_'Don't worry, it won't take long,' Damian rubbed his palms together and then placed his left palm over Norman's solar plexus, and his right – over the wound. 'Keep still.'_

_It was a strange sensation – to feel the damaged tissues grow together, so Norman had no problems with 'not moving' condition. But as soon as this process was finished, he swiftly rose to his feet. 'Thank you, Damian. Now, about that favour: it's time for me to go, but I need you to wait half an hour and then wake your boss. I'll do my best to help you with him, but don't ask me how. Just trust me.'_

_Melford nodded, and the man in the leather jacket turned around, disappearing right into the thin air a moment later._

_'Half an hour,' the PA murmured, settling down again to wait. 'Whatever you say, and good luck,' with that, he closed his eyes…_

* * *

_When Norman reappeared in the basement room, the psychic was still out cold. It suited Norman just fine: he needed to finish the merging without Norton knowing about the replacement of one personality by the other. The man in the leather jacket still felt Normi's presence – the black-clad man must have used the bite to transfer some of his energy into Norman's body. But on the other hand, maybe it was for the best: this way all three of them had a chance to become one whole personality._

_Crossing the room, Norman sat down on the sofa, reaching out and placing his palms on the banker's body the way Normi did it previously._

_'Welcome to your new life, Norman Norton,' the man in the leather jacket whispered, and after that there was only a bright light, fusing the parts together and creating a new personality. It went off as soon as the job was finished, and darkness closed around Norman Norton, lulling him back to sleep…_

A touch of someone's hand on his shoulder woke the psychic up, and he tried to pull away, irritated by the unwelcome disturbance.

"Forgive my insolence, master, but it's time," somebody said quietly. "The helicopter is just arrived and waiting near the hotel."

Norman blinked his eyes open and stretched blissfully, dislodging his PA's hand from his shoulder. "Thank you, Damian. Go ahead; I'll join you in a moment."

Melford looked at him searchingly for a few seconds, then nodded and, straightening up, walked to the door. "As you wish, sir."

The banker waited until the door closed behind his PA, then stood up and went to the wardrobe to retrieve a leather case. Opening it, he checked its contents and closed it again, nodding in satisfaction. "Well, Sherlock, ready or not, here I come," he said gleefully and left the room, carrying the case with him.


	27. Surprises and Decisions

It was strange – to sit here in the helicopter and wait for his boss, Damian thought. As if nothing happened, as if he wasn't a prisoner in his own mind, as if he hasn't met his superior's other personality… Okay, maybe the last one wasn't such a surprise: Melford suspected about Norman's presence since that memorable day in France, and meeting him face to face, so to speak, was just a question of time.

Norton's non-psychic version turned to be much more interesting – maybe because that person was just a human being, not burdened with a gift and therefore not suffering the curse of permanent boredom. More than that, this person was probably the reason why Damian decided to join forces with the Holmes brothers. It happened shortly after his return from France, and he also marked this moment by cutting off his ponytail. Melford wasn't sure if Norton would approve of his decision, but the banker seemed to be so amused by the change of his PA's hair style that even gave a suggestion for Damian to change the style of his clothes accordingly. The younger man had nothing to say against that, simply because preferred by him denim was now too informal for his stylish haircut. Actually, Melford was a bit surprised by his boss tendency to accept his not so businesslike appearance: Norton has been always immaculately dressed, and Damian, with his long hair and denim clothes, looked a bit out of place beside him. But, considering that their working relationship wasn't an ordinary one from the beginning, their mutual respect and understanding sort of came with the territory.

No wonder that Norton went as far as to call in his personal tailor and basically order a brand new wardrobe for his PA. Melford, of course, had his say in choosing of fabrics and styles, and Norton didn't fail to offer his advice, so their combined effort resulted in a quite impressive variety of tailored suits and fashionable casual clothes.

But however pleasant they working relationship was shaping out to be, Damian always remembered the reason it started in the first place. Norton was his perfect soulmate; but unfortunately, their supposed bond wasn't the one that would've allowed them to live happily ever after.

The thing was, - and all gifted ones knew it perfectly, - that from the beginning of time, two types of bond were brought into existence. The first was the one that Sherlock and John now had: a perfect symbiosis, where both soulmates completed each other. The second one…

Well, nobody knew for certain why this second type was created, but those who were unlucky enough to find themselves becoming part of that bond, named it 'the curse'. An adequate characterization, considering that the result of the bond was always the same.

Death, for both soulmates. And if that wasn't awful enough, the main condition was one of them destroying the other.

Of course the survivor didn't get to live long after that. An entirely logical outcome: when two people's very souls and energies get fused together, the demise of one would inevitably lead to the destruction of the other.

When Damian got noticed by Norton and then pulled off the street and into the psychic's world, he instantly knew how it all would end. He was destined to become the ultimate weapon of Norton's destruction, and there was nothing he could do to prevent or avoid that.

There was, however, one thing he COULD do: make Norton's death as painful as possible. But in order to do that, he was forced to pretend to be weaker that he really appeared to be.

There was a chance that the psychic would see through Damian's façade; but all daring plans required the ability to take necessary risks, so the young man was prepared for that. He made sure to keep his mental shields raised all the time, was unfailingly respectful, obedient and useful, therefore never giving Norton even a single reason to doubt him. Norton seemed to take his pretence in all good faith, so Melford prided himself on being clever and successful. Well, at least until that incident in France, after which Damian decided to form an alliance with Holmes brothers. Meeting the Shifter was an added bonus, although not without a bit of disappointment: the entity didn't fail to inform Melford about the tendency of the victim in the 'cursed' bond to be not so attentive towards his or her partner. Damian, in return, objected that he and Norton weren't bonded yet; but the Shifter swept his argument aside by pointing out that bonds came into existence since the moment the intended soulmates met each other. Bonding ritual, or its physical aspect, to be exact, was just a minor detail invented by humans in order to 'claim a property', as the Shifter chose to put it. They argued a little after that, but Damian was actually relieved to know that he had such a backup in this whole supernatural thing.

Norton's violent bonding shattered Melford's illusion of safety, and if it were not for pre-psychic personality's interference, the PA would've been doomed to spend the rest of his life trapped inside his own mind.

Speaking of that: his boss seemed to be taking too long with his 'I'll join you in a moment', and Damian carefully reached out with his mind, trying to determine his master's condition and whereabouts. The psychic seemed to be oblivious to his mental touch, which were good; but a moment later Melford started to worry a little, because his boss appeared to be lying prone in the corridor not far from his hotel room. The banker's mind was still active: Damian could still catch snippets of his thoughts, although they were in a total disarray. It took quite an effort for the PA to make sense of those jumbled snatches, but when he finally managed it, he was out of the helicopter and dashing back to the hotel.

On his way to the secluded part of the hotel where their rooms were, Melford berated himself for being so eager in pleasing his boss. If it wasn't for the banker's habit to be away from the crowd, which landed them in a far corner of the hotel, someone from the staff would've already found Norton and helped him. But on the other hand, considering those thoughts that Damian heard, it probably was for the best: the psychic was obviously having a setback, during which the remnants of his personalities tried to gain an upper hand over each other.

Concerned about the hotel staff's wellbeing, Melford made a crucial mistake: he let his attention wander from keeping track of Norton's internal struggle. Therefore, when he finally reached his boss, he had absolutely no idea as to who was now in charge. All that he saw was the man who needed his help.

To Damian's relief, the banker had already regained control over his body and was now attempting to sit up. Without a second thought the PA crouched down beside him, intending to help, and carefully touched his superior's arm, trying not to startle him. At the same time Melford reached out with his mind, curious about Norton's mental condition and ready to stabilise him if necessary.

That, as it turned out, was his second mistake, because as soon as he did that, the psychic raised his head and fixed him with a hard, cold stare. It was Norton's patented withering look, and Damian instinctively tried to pull away, shocked and disbelieving; but his boss reacted first, and the PA felt a cold touch of a handcuff being snapped onto his wrist. Right after that the banker rose to his feet with a dark, menacing chuckle.

"Not exactly what you were expecting, I take it," Norton said acidly. "Well, too bad for you. As for me, I will gladly use this situation as an opportunity to teach you a lesson."

There was a long chain attached to the handcuff on Damian's wrist; it ended with another handcuff which the psychic now secured on his own wrist. Then, grabbing the chain with his other hand, he gave it the experimental tug, causing Damian to nearly fall sideways. Still shocked, Melford made no attempt to prevent the fall, and if it wasn't for the banker's interference, the PA would've hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Norton's reaction was swift: he let go of the chain and gripped Melford's shoulder, stopping his fall.

"Don't read anything into that," the banker jingled the chain slightly. "I just need to secure the success of the future deal, my dear Damian, in which you're going to be, shall we say, my ticket to Eldorado. Oh, and I'm also quite aware of the nature of our bond, so the aforementioned deal might serve as a perfect solution for both of us: I would be getting an ideal companion, and you, in turn, would continue living a long and presumably happy life. Any objections?"

"From me – none whatsoever," Melford carefully moved his shoulder out of Norton's grasp and stood up. "But as for the current inhabitants of Holmes' mansion – I'm not so sure they would be interested in your offer."

The psychic watched him for a few moments, then opened the door to his hotel room and, grabbing his abandoned case with one hand and Damian's shoulder with the other, pushed him inside.

The PA allowed his superior to lead him to the sofa in the corner and sat down, obeying a slight downward movement of Norton's hand. Although the handcuff remained a solid reality on his wrist, he hasn't felt threatened – more like being reassessed and reevaluated. This version of Norman Norton was brand new, and although the recent version was in charge, there clearly were differences, which meant the merging had some effect. To which extent, however, still remained to be seen, but Damian had a feeling he was about to find it out.

Norton, meanwhile, made himself comfortable on the same sofa, and now watched his soulmate with mild interest; but as soon as he noticed a spark of attention in his PA's eyes, he made direct eye contact and allowed a hint of a smile to touch his lips.

"Something tells me you have a few questions," the banker said in an unexpectedly soft and warm voice. "So why don't you ask them?"

Damian tilted his head to the side. "I'm not entirely sure it's a safe thing to do, sir," he answered calmly, trying to scan his renewed soulmate at the same time. "No offence, sir, but you are clearly not the same man you used to be."

"Honest and straightforward," the psychic leaned back and chuckled quietly. "That's why I chose you as my trusted personal assistant, my dear fellow. And, before you ask, I knew about the nature of our impending bond, but there are some points in our lives that are fixed, and there's nothing we can do to change them. Our bond is one of those fixed points."

"That's a bit frightening, but I guess we both knew what we were getting ourselves into," Melford responded, mirroring his superior's pose. "You've changed the topic, though."

"Observant, as always," Norton remarked, threading the chain between his fingers absent-mindedly. "And absolutely correct. I am different, but my old self is still in charge. By 'old' I mean the most recent, of course."

"The question is, how it's going to affect our plans," the PA replied, crossing his arms on his chest and minding his cuffed wrist. "Apart from you still wanting to have Sherlock as your soulmate, I mean. As I understand, the two other parts of you are not so fond of that idea."

"True, but it doesn't really matter," Norton released the chain, allowing it to fall on the sofa with a soft tinkling sound. "I'm in charge, so they have no choice but to obey. As for my plan, I don't think it would be wise to reveal it, especially considering the fact of you being – how shall I phrase it – a double agent. And don't bother feigning astonishment – we both know that I had a chance to see into your mind."

"Well," gracefully raising to his feet, Damian turned to face his boss, "there's no point wasting time, then. As I mentioned earlier, the helicopter is waiting outside, so may I suggest…"

He didn't have the chance to finish his phrase, because Norton has been already up and moving towards the door. Melford had no other choice but to follow, otherwise the psychic would've simply pulled him along like a dog on a leash.

"Bring my case," Norton called out as soon as Damian started moving. "It's on the coffee table, which is on your left."

"Yes, sir," the PA replied, managing to grab for the handle of the briefcase in passing. "The helicopter is waiting across the road. The hotel doesn't have a suitable landing ground, so the pilot had to show some aerobatics while he searched for the place…"

"He's paid to do that," the banker interrupted coldly. "And your provocative strategy really calls for some improvement, Mr Melford. I won't relinquish control, so stop wasting my time with those pointless observations."

"Understood, sir," replied Damian and remained silent all the way to the waiting helicopter.

Their flight to Holmes' mansion took about twenty minutes, and soon both of them were standing in front of the solid iron gate. There was, however, now bell or anything like it, so Damian turned to look at his boss enquiringly.

Norton rolled his eyes. "Security cameras, Mr Melford. And we already have been noticed, I assure you."

As if confirming his words, the massive gate started to open. The banker simply raised his eyebrows in a silent 'told you so', and took a step forward…

* * *

For a few moments after Mycroft's announcement, everybody was still. Then Sherlock was the first to move, leaving the safety of John's embrace, getting to his feet and pulling his soulmate up afterwards. The doctor obeyed his friend's ministrations readily, and soon looked at him with obvious concern.

_'How are you feeling? And don't try to tell me you're okay, because I'm not going to believe that,'_ John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and looked at him closely, searching for any signs of pain.

The dark-haired man smiled at him. _'A bit light-headed, maybe, but otherwise I'm okay. You know my motto, John: a body is just an instrument. I'll manage.'_

_'Maybe, but that's your brain we are talking about, Sherlock,'_ the blond man replied, effectively stopping his partner's attempt to pull away. _'Especially considering that I'm going into hiding, and won't be able to protect you if anything goes wrong.'_

_'Nothing will go wrong, John, we have everything covered,'_ Sherlock objected, carefully pulling John's hands off his shoulders and taking a step back. _'And don't bother to tell me I can't promise that. You always say this, and I always prove you wrong. Well except the occasions when my brother is involved,'_ added the tall man, noticing that John was about to interrupt him. It was a deliberate attempt at distraction, and it worked like a charm, because Mycroft, who, with the Shifter's help, was tracking their conversation, instantly figured out Sherlock's intention and joined in – aloud, of course.

"Very amusing, little brother, although a bit disputable. Unfortunately, we don't have time to discuss it right now," Mycroft's voice was stern, but John and Sherlock weren't fooled by that façade. The older Holmes really cared, and both soulmates could clearly see a spark of concern in his steely gaze.

"I'll behave, Mycroft, I promise," Sherlock replied. "But I need to ask a favour in return."

"Of course, brother dear. Name it."

"I need you to keep John safe while I meet our guest," Sherlock replied, preparing for a bout of John's mental indignation. To his surprise, none came, and he looked at his soulmate in perplexion.

John grinned at him. _'So many years together, and you still can't get into that thick head of yours a simple fact of me knowing you better than you think. You still couldn't resist risking your life to prove you're clever. And while I'm not particularly fond of this habit of yours, I won't be stopping you. Just try not to get yourself killed this time.'_

Sherlock grinned right back. _'I'll try not to disappoint you, John. And… congratulations on adopting my manner of speech, by the way.'_

_'It's hard not to, when you are constantly trying to flood my mind with your thoughts,'_ John's mental chuckle prompted Sherlock to pull his soulmate into a strong but at the same time gentle embrace.

_'I'm sorry, John,'_ the dark-haired man's mental voice was quiet and a bit uncertain. _'I didn't want to…'_

_'That's okay, Sherlock, I don't mind,'_ John hastened to reassure. _'Kind of makes life interesting, you know.'_

Sherlock unexpectedly giggled in response, igniting John's giggle in return. And both of them did that aloud, causing Mycroft and Stanley to raise their eyebrows in perfect sync.

The younger Holmes let his soulmate go and waved his hand dismissively. "Private matter, which we are not inclined to talk about right now. Is the gate open, Mycroft?"

"It is going to be, as soon as I would be certain you are ready to meet him, Sherlock," Mycroft moved closer to his sibling. "Are you, brother dear?"

The dark-haired man just looked at him, then turned and went to the door. The older Holmes followed him, ordering Barlow to take care of the remaining members of their small company.

Sherlock made a swift detour into his room on the third floor to change his clothes, and Mycroft went into the control room to issue a command for opening of the front gate.

Ten minutes later Sherlock crossed the drawbridge and headed towards the now open gate, where Norman Norton was waiting.

This was the point of no return for all of them, and Mycroft, who managed at that point reach the library and was now watching his younger brother through the window, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

The final showdown was about to begin.


	28. Laws of Hospitality

The alley leading towards the front gate seemed to stretch out into eternity, and Sherlock gradually slowed down his pace. The pain in his head has now abated, but it was still there, lurking at the back of the younger man's mind – a constant reminder of the task which nobody except him was capable of undergoing. His destination loomed ahead in form of Norton and his PA, and the dark-haired man habitually reached out with his mind, checking if his soulmate was safe.

' _Missing me already, Sherlock?'_ John answered immediately. _'Don't worry, I'm perfectly okay. Stanley is keeping me company. How are things outside?'_

' _I'm on my way,'_ Sherlock replied calmly. _'And I want you to be ready, because I don't think we can solve our problem by simple conversation at the gate. Inviting our guests in is inevitable, so when it happens, I want you to follow Mycroft's instructions implicitly.'_

' _Can't say that I'm too happy about the whole idea of you going out there alone, but I guess we don't have much choice,'_ John commented. _'And yes, I'll do as you ask. But only if you'd be careful and avoid being killed.'_

' _Norman Norton isn't interested in killing me, John, I thought we'd established that,'_ Sherlock objected. _'What concerns me more is the possibility of our separation.'_

' _Well, if he tries this trick, all we need to do is lock him in the basement,'_ the doctor said cheerfully. _'Stanley mentioned that you have a padded cell down there, I think it would suit us just fine.'_

Sherlock did his best to remain unruffled. _'You do realise I need to look like I'm suffering from side effects of that thing in your head? Don't try to make me laugh, John.'_

' _Oh, and you talking with me right now as if nothing happened isn't going to blow your cover?'_ John retorted.

' _You're forgetting one small detail,'_ Sherlock replied calmly. _'Due to recent events Norton is, shall we say, distracted a bit. Our mentor, on the other hand, is at his best, so we are under full protection. But you are right; we'd better finish our conversation.'_

' _Good idea,'_ John agreed. _'Good luck, Sherlock, and please be careful.'_

' _I always am,'_ Sherlock commented, terminating the conversation. He was almost near the gate, and could already see two people standing close to the first tree on the left side of the alley.

As soon as the dark-haired man corrected his course, Norman took a step forward with his PA following close. Sherlock kept walking until they were only two steps from each other, then halted abruptly and stood motionless, looking at their guests. The purpose of his scrutiny was evident: to intimidate unwelcome intruders and to show that any hostile action will be met with immediate resistance.

Norton, however, remained unperturbed and even stretched his arm out for a handshake, but before he could utter a word, Melford beat him to it. The PA felt more sure without the chain, and was somehow even grateful that his boss decided to take it off earlier, while they were in the helicopter.

"Any reason for you not willing to show your companion, Mr. Holmes?" Damian asked conversationally. "And don't bother to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, because we're well aware of your recent bonding."

Norton kept his facial expression neutral as he turned to look at his assistant, but his stare was absolutely murderous. "Thank you for your effort, Mr Melford, but I can handle the whole situation myself."

Judging by the way Damian stubbornly raised his chin, Norman's attempt at intimidation didn't have much result. "No offence, boss, but with your intention to chuck me, there's no need for me to continue being a perfect servant. Besides, I'm doing you a favour by trying to find a new soulmate and therefore to effectively rid yourself from my presence."

Norton's eyes flashed dangerously, but his attempt at a cutting retort was thwarted by Sherlock's unexpected chuckle and loud, deliberate clapping of his hands.

"Here we were, dreading your arrival," the dark-haired man commented with a hint of irony, "and you're nearly having a little domestic at our doorstep. If I knew it's going to be so entertaining, I would've invited you earlier."

The banker crossed his arms on his chest. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Holmes. Many people made a fatal mistake of underestimating me; I really hope you are not going to follow their example, because that would be the most unfortunate scenario."

"Oh, I would do my best not to disappoint you, Mr. Norton," Sherlock took a step forward and extended his hand, mirroring Norman's previously aborted gesture. "For what it's worth, welcome to our humble abode."

Without a second thought, Norton reached out and clasped the detective's hand, sealing the handshake. As soon as he did that, the younger Holmes lowered his mental shields, causing the psychic to wince slightly; but, as Sherlock had expected, his vis-à-vis refrained from breaking the handshake, stoically enduring flashes of pain that Sherlock was broadcasting through their temporal connection.

Their silent opposition lasted for a few moments more, until they both were pulled from their reverie by Damian pointedly clearing his throat.

"I'm totally impressed by your hospitality, Mr. Holmes, but how about continuing this spectacular event somewhere more comfortable? Because we obviously have a lot of topics to discuss, and it would be strange to do that here. Although the scenery is quite nice, I have to admit it. Especially the castle. Your family certainly has a good taste."

"Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Melford," Sherlock moved back, freeing his palm from Norton's hold. "And you're completely right, we should take this inside. If you would be so kind as to follow me, gentlemen," with that he turned and strode towards the drawbridge, expecting their guests to do the same.

Needless to say, he wasn't disappointed: Norman caught up with him a moment later, falling into step on his left, and Damian brought the rear a few seconds afterwards. The banker paused in his walk, waiting until the PA was beside him, and elegantly divested him of the case which Damian was still carrying. The younger man didn't even blink, never faltering in his stride, and just a hint of a smile on his lips signaled his reaction.

"If you're trying to prevent me from finding out the contents of this case, you're a bit late, boss," Damian commented calmly. "You shouldn't have asked me to carry it in a first place."

Norton just quirked up an eyebrow and kept walking. "I never said I wanted to hide it from you, Mr. Melford. I don't doubt your abilities; the question is, what you are going to do now?"

Damian opened his mouth to reply, thought a little, and closed it again.

"Exactly," the psychic remarked pointedly. "And while you're still in the mood, think about why exactly I allowed you to continue your little diversion."

By that time they almost crossed the courtyard, and Sherlock stopped a few steps from the door, turning to look at their visitors with avid curiosity.

"Well-well-well," he drawled, eyes sparkling mischievously. "The day just keeps getting better and better. I almost feel guilty for not inviting the rest of our small company for participation."

Right at that moment, as if on cue, the heavy front door opened, revealing two men standing in the hall: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. Seeing his older brother, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but Mycroft shook his head slightly and pointedly looked down.

Norton, who didn't fail to notice this silent exchange, raised his eyebrows. "A welcoming committee that need no introductions. Congratulations on your quick recovery, by the way, Detective Inspector. I won't say I'm sorry for causing you a hard time, because then I would be lying. But you are obviously fortunate to have people who care about you so much that they are willing to sacrifice themselves."

Lestrade grinned in reply, crossing his arms on his chest. "Yeah, I'm sort of a lucky guy. And you're that bastard who nearly had my brain eaten at by some goddamn thing. Don't expect me to be happy to see you."

Norman's lips curved in a slight smile. "Oddly enough, such thought hasn't crossed my mind, Detective Inspector. I have no habit of reminiscing about the past."

Lestrade tilted his head to the right. "Reasonable, but not entirely wise. You know as the old saying goes? Those who forget the past…"

"I don't tend to forget either," the banker interrupted. "Speaking of which: we have a lot to discuss, gentlemen, so why don't we curtail this meet-and-greet phase and get down to business?"

Sherlock, who during the whole verbal sparring match was busy with silent communication between himself and Mycroft, seemed to suddenly snap into attention. Turning to look at their guests, he flashed them his patented one-sided grin. "Finally. I was starting to fear you'd never get to the point. May I suggest continuing our conversation upstairs? We even prepared to offer you a cup of tea. The laws of hospitality should be obeyed, and so on."

Norton's facial expression remained unchanged. "Considering the attitude some members of your company have towards me, accepting your offer can prove to be quite hazardous, I'm afraid."

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in reply, huffed in indignation and, turning crisply on his heels, marched down the hall, leaving his brother and Lestrade with the task of dealing with their guests.

The older Holmes followed his younger sibling's retreating form with his eyes, then turned to face Norton and Melford, giving an eye roll of his own. "That's my little brother for you," he said calmly. "Acting like a character from the cloak-and-dagger novel, while being an absolute opposite of one. As for your remark, your apprehension is groundless."

The corners of Norman's mouth twitched downwards. "As it was in France, I presume."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

The banker snorted quietly. "Here comes the part where you are going to tell me that you have nothing to do with the mountain road accident."

The older Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Mister Nornon, I presume you know me and my ways well enough to understand that such manner of action is not my milieu. My goal back then was to bring an end to your scheme, which I successfully achieved. Killing you was never an option."

"If you expect me to be grateful, then you obviously don't know ME at all," Norton replied coldly.

Mycroft's smile was as cold as Norman's voice. "On the contrary, my dossier on you is quite extensive. For example, I'm aware of the fact that you are not partial to discussing important matters on the doorstep."

"Ah, a polite invitation at its finest," the banker commented sarcastically. "How can I refuse?"

Lestrade, agitated, balled his hands into fists and took a step forward. Noticing that, the older Holmes half-turned and placed a firm hand on the DI's shoulder. "Don't, Greg. Physical force is not a solution to our problem."

Lestrade looked at him for a few moments, then gradually relaxed. "You're right. Besides, Sherlock would be very disappointed if I spoil his fun."

"Exactly," Mycroft nodded slightly. "Speaking of which: the tea is long overdue, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah," Lestrade flashed his trademark grin. "We probably ought to ask someone to reboil it."

"Sherlock, perhaps?" the older Holmes enquired calmly, keeping his expression neutral.

The DI snorted quietly. "You are a dangerous man, Mycroft Holmes. Your brother is telepathic; what if he hears you?"

"Well, in this case he'll have plenty of time to come up with a witty reply," the politician responded, removing his hand from Lestrade's shoulder and gesturing towards the stairs at the end of the hall. "Shall we?"

"Of course," nodding, the DI looked at their guests. "No offence, Mr. Norton, but you just seem to rub me the wrong way. And I don't like people who manage to do that."

"My heart bleeds for you," the psychic replied coldly. "But I need to disappoint you: your attitude is of no importance."

"Oh, I'm sure for you it isn't," Lestrade tilted his head to the right, not at all put out by Norton's words. "I'm just a guest here, like you. A bit of advice, though: Holmes brothers are generous hosts, but their hospitality isn't limitless. Make sure you don't cross the line, or there would be consequences."

"Thank you for the priceless warning, I shall endeavour to follow it," Norman's voice now acquired notes of sarcasm. "Speaking of hospitality: shouldn't we already be on our way?"

"We certainly should," Mycroft confirmed, seizing control of the situation again. "Follow me, please."

Not saying another word, the older Holmes turned around and strolled towards the stairs, beckoning for the DI to follow him. Greg obeyed, but not before bowing theatrically to the guests. Melford rolled his eyes in response, and Norton chose to ignore Lestrade's mocking invitation, pushing past him and crossing the hall to the bottom of the stairs where Mycroft now stood waiting.

"Antagonising my boss is not a good idea, Detective Inspector," Damian said quietly as soon as Norman was out of an earshot. "He may seem to be indifferent, but this façade may cost you greatly."

"Oh, really?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Even more than a brain-eating thing inside one's head?"

"That was just a minor side effect," the PA replied calmly. "There's something far more dangerous coming, I think you should be aware of that."

"Thanks for such a generous warning," the DI's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "The only question is, why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm on your side, Detective Inspector," Damian said simply. "You may not believe me, of course…"

"Mister Melford!" Norton's voice prevented the PA from continuing. The younger man turned abruptly and hurried to catch up with his boss.

Lestrade shook his head slightly, puzzled by Damian's unfinished confession, then followed him to the stairs.

"Finally," the banker commented acidly when all four of them were standing at the foot of the stairs. "I hope I didn't distract you from something important, gentlemen."

Melford lowered his head and looked down; Lestrade, catching Mycroft's warning stare, decided against voicing his witty reply. The DI knew for certain that he wasn't even half as good in verbal sparring as Sherlock, so there was no point in spoiling all the fun.

The older Holmes nodded slightly in appreciation and, not saying another word, went upstairs, fully expecting the others to follow.

And follow they did – Lestrade first, falling into step behind Mycroft, Norton and Melford – right on their heels, trailing along.

It took them about two minutes to get to the dining room. When they entered, Sherlock was standing near the window, his back turned towards the door. When he greeted Norman and Damian near the gate, he was in his famous long coat; now it was thrown onto the nearest armchair, giving the rest of the company an opportunity to appreciate the view of the younger Holmes in one of his perfectly tailored suits.

Suddenly, before anyone could do or say anything, Norton crossed the room and, stopping near Sherlock, leaned closer to his ear. Sherlock didn't seem to be surprised at all by this turn of events, and calmly allowed the banker to whisper something in his ear.

The rest of the company wasn't so friendly and accepting – particularly Lestrade, who, after the initial few moments of shocked silence strode towards the pair and rudely pushed Norton away.

The younger Holmes turned to look at his impromptu defender, a slight smile lifting the corners of his lips. "Don't worry, Detective Inspector, Mr. Norton isn't interested in causing me any harm. And besides, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself..," he paused for a second. "Thanks for caring, Greg," he added quietly.

The DI frowned, briefly thrown for a loop by the detective's unexpected gratitude. "You are welcome, Sherlock."

At that moment Norman pointedly cleared his throat. "If you're quite finished, gentlemen…"

Sherlock turned his head towards the psychic, his expression neutral. "Why should I believe you? You already managed to cause a lot of damage to the people who matter the most to me, and now, all of a sudden, you want to help? Highly suspicious, if you want to know my opinion."

"Your attitude is completely understandable," Norton crossed his arms on his chest, his expression calm and composed. "And I deeply regret that my previous actions were so devastating for you…"

Sherlock interrupted his confession with a derisive snort, but otherwise said nothing.

Frowning slightly in displeasure, the banker continued. "Let's make something clear, shall we? I'm well aware of everything that had happened to you and your companions during the last few days, and I know that the same you can say about me and my personal assistant. Having established that, I would like you to consider my proposal," he paused. "Especially because I know that it hurts, and it's only going to get worse."

"Sounds tempting, but there's one small detail that worries me," Sherlock remarked calmly. "As you have already mentioned, I know what happened to you. I also know why you are so eager to cure my soulmate. How can I be sure that you're going to keep your word? For all I know, you can easily kill my chosen one in the process and then take me by force – like you did it with Mr. Melford not long ago."

"You can't," Norton confirmed simply. "But you have no other choice, and you know it."

"Doesn't mean I have to agree with that," Sherlock objected stubbornly, his pose closed and defensive.

The psychic bared his teeth in a wide grin. "Interesting dilemma, isn't it? To deny my offer and lose your soulmate, or to accept it and probably lose him in the process. Oh, wait!" the grin turned predatory. "You lose him either way, so what's the difference?"

"Enough!" the Shifter's voice, sounding unexpectedly harsh, reverberated through the room. The rest of the group simultaneously turned to look at the speaker. The entity's inhumanly blue eyes were blazing with barely controlled fury. "Humans!" he practically spat the word with disdain. "You, with your hunger for power and pathetic squabbles… you sicken me! You think yourself godlike, when in reality you're nothing but a bunch of blind fools; even your gifts you use to exalt yourselves and belittle the others…"

He stopped abruptly and looked at Greg Lestrade, who during this strange outburst risked to come close and place his hand carefully on the Shifter's (and Mycroft's) shoulder.

Their gazes locked and held, the two of them stood motionless for a couple of minutes; then Mycroft shook his head, his eyes regaining their normal colour.

"My apologies," he said, sounding tired and spent. "We are obviously getting nowhere, so I think it's time for desperate measures. Follow me, please."

With that he swiftly left the room, and, after a moment of confused stillness, the rest of the group did as he asked.


	29. Face To Face

To Sherlock's mild surprise and Lestrade's astonishment, Mycroft confidently led their small group in the direction of the basement. The younger Holmes took this sudden change of plan in stride; the DI, on the other hand, wasn't so quick on the uptake, and his puzzled frown caused Sherlock to slow down and move closer to Greg.

"I know it seems strange," the tall man said quietly, "but Shifter and my brother never do anything without carefully planning it out in the first place. Whatever they have in mind, we should simply go with the flow. Are you up to that?"

"I may consider your question as an offense, you know," Lestrade looked at him, grinning. "I agreed to be the lifeboat; do you really think some change in Mycroft's plan can change my decision to help you?"

"Just checking," Sherlock mirrored his grin. "But I would keep an eye on my brother, if I was you – he tends to be even more quick-witted than me."

"Don't I know that!" the DI kept smiling, but now a slight frown was creasing his forehead: Sherlock acted strangely, and there certainly was a reason for that, which, for the moment, eluded Greg completely.

The younger Holmes, however, noticed the small change in Greg's expression, and, casually brushing his arm against Lestade's – at which point the police inspector turned his head in Sherlock's direction, - looked pointedly at his brother's back and then closed his fingers into a fist, as if holding something inside. Greg frowned a bit more – as far as explanations usually went, this one certainly was too polysemantic.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation and quickly mouthed 'a trap'. Lestrade simply nodded: there was no point in second-guessing Mycroft's plan now, all he could do is try to react quickly and do his best not to become a nuisance.

Three minutes and two staircases later the small procession stopped in front of a metal door which was barring the entrance to the basement.

"Impressive," Norton remarked, observing the door and the electronic lock panel on the right of it. "Am I right in my presumption that this is the place where you are hiding your mysterious soulmate, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, smirking sarcastically. "You are presuming, Mr. Norton? With your level of gift you ought to know everything about me and my partner already."

"Doesn't mean I shouldn't abide by the rules of politeness," the banker objected. "You obviously intent on offending me, Mr. Holmes. Well, in that case I should disappoint you, I'm afraid: I won't give you the pleasure of seeing me go "off balance", in a manner of speaking."

The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Oh, really?"

"Gentlemen," Mycroft's cold voice cut into their debate. "As much as I enjoy your witty verbal sparring…"

"Of course, brother dear," Sherlock interrupted. "As soon as you'll open the door."

The older Holmes chose not to dignify his brother's mockery with a response, turning to the door instead and quickly keying in the code.

A moment later the massive door slowly started to open, and Norton, humming quietly in appreciation, readjusted his hold on the handle of his briefcase. Noticing that out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft turned to face their guests once again. "Judging by your attitude, Mr. Norton, you are determined to secure the deal. But you also seem to be interested in finding out all about my little brother's soulmate. So the question is, what do you wish to do first?"

A shadow of a smile flitted across the banker's lips. "Such a tempting offer," he murmured softly. "Are you willing to sacrifice the aforementioned soulmate in order to save your brother?"

"Divide and conquer, isn't it, Mr. Norton?" Sherlock's voice was laced with contempt. "Nice try, but you've chosen the wrong tactic. If my brother wanted to betray me, he wouldn't have gone to such lengths to protect me."

As soon as the younger Holmes said that, Norton's smile turned into a wolfish grin. "Ah, yes. Protection. He was so eager to protect you that struck a deal with my PA to overthrow me and even took upon himself a laborious task of murdering you."

For the next two or three minutes Sherlock froze; memories were flooding into his mind, bringing him back to the day of his death. Now, when his mind wasn't so preoccupied with the terror of dying, he started to remember: the delicate smell of Mycroft's perfume, his brother's distressed expression, his slightly shaking hands as he tightened the rope on Sherlock's neck and the sigh of relief when the younger Holmes made no objection against being flipped over with his face pressed into the pillow. He fought, of course – the instinct for self-preservation was hard to ignore, and the opportunity to cause trouble to his brother was absolutely irresistible.

But it also came as a shock that his usually stoic and cold-hearted brother could be hesitant and regretful; the younger Holmes always thought that if his older sibling hadn't chosen to be a politician, he could become the best criminal that the world had ever known.

Long time ago Sherlock and Mycroft decided not to care; but life is famous for changing people's resolutions, and both brothers made an exception to their rule: Sherlock – for John, and Mycroft – for Sherlock.

If the world's only consulting detective was sentimental, he probably would've said that his brother killed him tenderly; but Sherlock was the most rational creature in the world, so he spared no time for all that nonsense, concentrating instead on here and now and on the fact of Lestrade hearing Norton's words.

The younger Holmes slowly turned to look at the DI and froze again when their eyes met: it wasn't Greg, who was looking at him right now, it was John.

Sherlock's mind automatically calculated the possibilities: John was an emotional man, and sometimes tended to overreact; right now such overreaction equalled signing of a death certificate for all of them.

Fortunately, Lestrade had been monitoring the whole situation, and firmly pushed John back into his hiding place. Now if only Greg could forget for a moment that he happened to be a police inspector...

"Impressive," the DI's voice was surprisingly calm. "One small problem here, though: words are just words until you manage to prove them."

Norton tuned down the wolfishness in his smile to polite level. "Of course, Detective Inspector, but you've chosen the wrong person to ask for the proof. I have a certain level of influence nowadays, but that doesn't mean I hold all the keys. Just think about it, Inspector: presuming that I'm telling the truth, isn't it logical that the murderer has the proof?"

"IF you're telling the truth," Lestrade corrected coldly. "In which I don't believe at all, by the way."

This debate threatened to last forever, and Sherlock, already bored to death, decided to take the situation under control. "You're wasting your time, Greg. When it comes to debate, Norman Norton is the second in skill after my brother."

"Yeah, I gathered that much," the DI turned to look at him and Sherlock was relieved to see understanding in the silver-haired man's eyes. "So what are we going to do now?"

"Now, my friend," Sherlock moved closer to Greg and put his arm around the DI's shoulders, "we are going to accompany our guests to John's bedside. If Mr. Norton wishes to meet my soulmate then we should provide him with the opportunity, don't you think?"

Lestrade turned his head and looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. He was fully in control again – no traces of John's presence remained, - but there was a shadow of concern in his dark gaze, and Sherlock felt guilty for not being able to explain anything to his friend. Unfortunately, saying or even thinking anything at this point was extremely dangerous and could ruin the whole operation.

Lestrade, however, seemed to read everything he needed to know from the dark-haired man's eyes, and relaxed, nodding silently. Sherlock let him go and stepped away, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.

So, his brother turned to be his murderer. Strange, but, taking into account their unusual relationship, entirely logical. Mycroft watched over him since childhood, and, naturally, when it came to the task of Sherlock's murder, the older Holmes couldn't trust anyone with such delicate matter.

Besides, - and it came to Sherlock so suddenly that he shook his head in amazement, wondering why he hadn't thought about it in the first place, - Mycroft definitely had another solid reason not to delegate this task to anybody. The reason which made itself known as soon as Sherlock passed the threshold between life and death; the reason that had a strange name which was revealed to them not too long ago.

The Shifter.

Sherlock knew now that it was the entity's plan all along – to recruit him and to make him the ultimate weapon of Norton's destruction. He also remembered the strange conversation with Mycroft and their mysterious guest. The man was hiding in the shadows, but now Sherlock knew his identity – it was Damian Melford, Norton's PA and another pawn in the Shifter's game.

For the benevolent creature, the entity had been too rational and practical. But then again, it was Mycroft, who the Shifter chose as his lifelong soulmate, and Mycroft's tendency to influence his long-term associates had been well known.

Sherlock shook his head again: this whole bunch of facts required sufficient amount of time for sorting through, analysing and categorizing. The amount of time, which Sherlock, unfortunately, didn't have right now.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade moved closer to him and gently placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Are you with us? You seem to be spaced out a bit."

Frowning, Sherlock looked around. It appeared that he did indeed spaced out, because now their small company included Stanley Barlow, who, obviously during the period of Sherlock's reverie, opened the door to the intensive care room and at the moment stood on the threshold, barring the way in. Other than that, their disposition remained unchanged.

The sandy-haired doctor was looking straight at the consulting detective, and the latter realised suddenly that he had no other choice but to show Norton John's body.

But, on the other hand, maybe it was for the best: these last few days were taxing in the extreme, and Sherlock was starting to wish for this whole story to end. Not the part with John being his soulmate – the younger Holmes was just starting to get used to having the real lifelong partner in every sense of the word, and there was so much to learn, so much to discover that he was really looking forward to finish their interrupted bonding ritual.

The story with Norton, however, needed to be brought to an end once and for all. Sherlock knew that it won't be an easy task, but at the same time he was waiting for the final battle with a barely hidden impatience. The psychic was their enemy, but who said Sherlock couldn't learn a useful thing or two from him?

Speaking of which…

"Mr. Norton, allow me to introduce Doctor Stanley Barlow," Sherlock tilted his head to the right, smiling politely. "You mentioned our mutual awareness about the events which happened lately, so I think you've already know his name. Now you have a chance to meet him in person."

Norton's attention immediately shifted from the younger Holmes to the green-eyed physician. Barlow held his gaze calmly, not at all intimidated by the banker's presence. The staring contest lasted a couple of minutes, then Norton broke the eye contact first, smiling in satisfaction. "Ah, the man who my PA recruited for looking after my new nemesis. I must congratulate you, you've done an excellent job."

"No need for flattery, Mr Norton," Barlow crossed his arms on his chest. "We both know that if it wasn't for you – and I don't mean that as a compliment, - none of us would be here now."

Sherlock moved closer to the physician and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You can skip the part with accusations, Stanley. We've already done it. How's John?"

Barlow turned his head to look at the dark-haired man, frowning slightly, and Sherlock squeezed his shoulder again, quirking up an eyebrow. Luckily for the younger Holmes, Stanley understood the silent message and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "He's still comatose, and his condition is stable, if that's what you're asking about."

Sherlock let go of his shoulder and stepped away. "Such a pity, because Mr Norton here is eager to meet him."

Barlow smirked. "Well, if he has nothing against Doctor Watson not talking, moving, or paying any attention to him, it's still can be arranged."

The banker mirrored the physician's smirk with his own. "I obviously need to give some credit to my PA: he made an excellent choice. In different circumstances, I would've been honoured to hire you as my personal GP, Doctor Barlow."

"Hate to disappoint you, but I would've declined your generous offer," Stanley replied, bowing theatrically.

"Gentlemen," Mycroft's voice was colder than ice. "Shouldn't we all be doing something else?"

"My point exactly," Sherlock mover closer to Stanley again. "So, about the aforementioned arrangement?"

The sandy-haired doctor simply took a step back into the room, allowing the rest of the company to pass through the doorway. Mycroft moved first, leading their small group; Greg accompanied him, making sure there was some distance between the older Holmes and their unwelcome guests. Norton and Melford followed suit, leaving only Sherlock and Barlow in the corridor.

Stanley looked at his patient, raising an eyebrow slightly. Sherlock seemed to be lost in his thoughts, his unfocused eyes staring through the physician as if he wasn't there. Barlow hesitated, not sure how to react at the sudden change in the younger Holmes' behaviour, and finally decided to keep him company without interfering.

The reason of Sherlock's strange reverie was simple: the moment Barlow vacated his guarding post in the doorway, a tidal wave of excruciating pain slammed against Sherlock's mental shield, and, although it was at its maximum level at the moment (the younger Holmes couldn't risk any information seeping out), the blow was strong enough to practically paralyse the detective. Inwardly dazed and reeling in shock, Sherlock kept the thoughtful façade; but the internal struggle was quickly draining his power and he needed to do something about that, or Norton's victory in their upcoming battle was guaranteed.

Perhaps Stanley managed to somehow detect what Sherlock did his best to hide, or it was in the sandy-haired doctor's character - not to remain a simple observer in any situation, but his next move literally saved the younger Holmes.

The simple feel of Barlow's hand, placed on Sherlock's arm gently and carefully, became the so needed anchor, and the world's only consulting detective blinked slowly, his eyes focusing on Stanley's face.

The sandy-haired doctor was looking at him with concern. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked softly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You already did," the younger Holmes closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath. "Our mentor takes his tasks too seriously. As John would say, it hurts like hell, but there's nothing either of us could do to eliminate it. Just an annoying side effect of the deal, I'll manage. Now let's go inside before they start to worry and ask questions. And do let go of my arm, please; I'm not going to fall apart in front of you, don't worry."

Barlow took his hand off Sherlock's arm and gestured towards the door. "Be my guest. They are waiting for YOU, after all, so…"

Right at that moment Greg Lestrade reappeared in the corridor and immediately got into the younger Holmes' personal space by none-too-gently grabbing his arm and practically dragging him to the opposite wall of the corridor. After that the DI bodily pinned Sherlock against the aforementioned wall and looked him straight in the eyes.

Whatever words the dark-haired man was going to say froze on his lips when he saw the silver-haired man's eyes.

Or, rather, his soulmate's eyes, looking intense and sparkling with the need to sort things out.

The whole situation was threatening to turn critical any moment, and Sherlock forced his shocked mind to snap out of reverie by automatically pushing his infuriated soulmate away.

"What the hell you think you're doing?" the tall man hissed, straightening the sleeve of his suit jacket. "Norton is just behind the wall and you're going to blow our cover by having this stupid argument!"

John took a step back and continued to glower at Sherlock distantly. "You think I would give a damn after everything I just heard?" he shot back, putting his hands on his hips. "We have a lot to talk about when this whole business with Norton ends, Sherlock!"

"Provided that it ends well, of course," Sherlock remarked. "You know me, John; I can never resist a touch of drama."

"Getting yourself killed is NOT a touch of drama," John stubbornly raised his chin. "How on earth did you agree to take part in such madness?"

"Because Mycroft asked for my help," Sherlock said simply. "And I saw that it was important for him. We may sometimes seem to be enemies, but it's only a façade, I think you already know that. So how could I refuse if my brother's life was on the line?"

"Of course you couldn't," John smiled and, lowering his hands from his hips, clasped them behind his back. A second later Lestrade was in charge again, shaking his head slightly and reaching up with one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Jees, I think my head's going to burst if we'd keep switching places like that."

One step took Sherlock closer to Greg, and the younger man patted his shoulder consolingly. "Don't worry, it all will be over soon. Just a couple hours more, and you and John can safely part company as a lifeboat companions."

"As I already – and not once, I remind you, - mentioned, I don't have a problem with the lifeboat thing," the DI contradicted tiredly. "I'm just not so fond of it turning to be a bloody roller-coaster from time to time."

Sherlock chuckled quietly. "Welcome to our world, Greg. You should ask John to tell you our story: it's quite amusing. Although we need to do something first for that to happen."

"Yeah, Norton is actually starting to complain about your strange behaviour. Says you're deliberately avoiding him for some reason which he's unable to understand."

"Luckily for him, right now I'm in a mood to explain this reason," Sherlock patted the DI's shoulder again and started walking. "Come on, Greg, let's not keep him waiting any longer."

Lestrade followed him readily, and soon they joined the rest of the company in the room.

Or, rather, witnessed two groups standing opposite each other, looking tense and extremely unfriendly. Mycroft and Stanley were keeping guard near John's bed, standing shoulder to shoulder and blocking the view, and Norton with his PA were keeping close to the wall just to the left of the door.

Quickly accessing the situation and sending Greg to join his older brother and the physician, Sherlock turned to face Norton, smiling politely. "Sorry to keep you waiting. There were some matters urgently demanding my attention. But now everything is settled, and you have my undivided attention for as long as you require."

"I'm glad to hear that," the banker matched him smile for smile. "Although I need to settle some issues of my own for us to continue this conversation. "Excuse me for a moment," with that, he walked to a nearest table, placed his briefcase there and opened it, revealing a small electronic device featuring a timer panel and a button. "Let's level our chances first, shall we?"

As soon as the device saw a light of day, Sherlock was struck by a wave of soul-numbing terror. It dulled his senses and left him helpless and shaken to the core. His vision started to dim, and the last thing he saw before crumpling to the floor was Norton pressing the button with a triumphant smile…


	30. The Showdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and sorry for the prolonged silence – this year was tough for me.
> 
> On the bright side, the story turned to be longer than I expected, and now has an epilogue.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock's unconsciousness didn't last long; soon he found himself cradled in someone's arms and being rocked gently and carefully. "John?" he whispered, still dazed and disoriented, trying to lift his hand and touch his partner.

"It's Stanley, Sherlock," the physician's voice was full of concern. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

The younger Holmes moaned and tried to do as he was told: unsuccessfully at first (it felt as if his eyelids were glued together), but, after Barlow's careful assistance (the sandy-haired doctor managed to find a pressure point on Sherlock's palm which sent an energy burst through the dark-haired man's body), opening his eyes ceased to be a problem.

Noticing that, Barlow helped him to rise into a sitting position. "Take it easy, you went down pretty hard. How's your head?"

"Bearable," Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back to rest on Stanley's supporting shoulder. He felt slightly nauseous, but not because of the fall; there was something strange and dangerous still happening in the room, and Sherlock, even with his eyes closed, knew he wasn't going to like it.

As if sensing his attitude, Barlow cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um, Sherlock… I think we may have a problem. Don't panic and take a look."

"I have no habit of panicking, Stanley," the younger Holmes objected, raising his head and opening his eyes slowly.

A couple of seconds later he was almost tempted to reconsider: the view in front of him gave at least two reasons for panic – more specifically, Mycroft and John.

In his swift assessment, Sherlock right away discarded the visual information about Norton and Melford literally going at each other's throats. Lestrade, lying unconscious near the bed, got a bit more attention, but he seemed to be unharmed, so Sherlock finally concentrated on John and Mycroft.

There were a few similarities in the two men's current conditions: both were raked by constant violent seizures and both had a nosebleed. The latter alarmed Sherlock the most: he recalled the recent encounter with those symptoms and made an immediate attempt to get up.

"Whoa, not so fast!" Barlow gripped his shoulders, effectively anchoring him in place. "Where do you think you're going?"

The younger Holmes struggled out of his grasp and turned to face him. "I need to know what happened, Stan."

"I can tell you," Barlow put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders again. "And you'd better not move until I make sure you're absolutely okay."

"Not arguing with the doctor," the dark-haired man raised his arms in mock surrender. "But only if you fulfil your offer. Tell me what happened."

Barlow let him go and waited till Sherlock turned to face him. "There's not much to tell, actually," he shrugged his shoulders. "You went down even before Norton activated his device. I rushed to help you, leaving your brother and Inspector Lestrade to protect John. Unfortunately, they both were affected too: Greg lost his consciousness, and Mycroft… Mister Holmes… He started to seize almost immediately after falling. Sherlock, I know those symptoms too well. It's a brain tumour. And John's condition is getting worse too."

Right at that moment Norton managed to gain an upper hand in his combat with Melford, and knocked his PA out with one well-aimed blow. Propelled by its force, Damian crashed into the nearest wall and slid down to the floor like a broken puppet.

Sherlock's back was turned towards Norton and he couldn't see what was happening, but Barlow promptly jumped to his feet, ready to protect Sherlock. Alarmed, the younger Holmes started to turn around, but Norton just continued to stand where he was, applauding theatrically.

"Such bravery, Doctor Barlow," the banker's voice was colder than ice. "Although it's a wasted effort: I mean young Sherlock no harm."

The man in question finished turning around and, after climbing to his feet, stood glaring at the psychic. "Oh, really? In that case, care to explain what happened to me just before you activated your device?"

"A side effect, I presume," Norton replied calmly. "But frankly, I expected you to pay more attention to what happened AFTER the activation."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "To what exactly you are referring?"

The banker's lips curved into a condescending smile. "You're a detective, so why don't you detect it yourself?"

The younger Holmes took a deep breath, closed his eyes and opened them again, simultaneously switching on his "extra-vision".

The picture that he saw was terrifying and devastating. Norton's device appeared to have severed all connections between soulmates. John's consciousness was pulled out of Lestrade's mind and had no choice but to return into his own body; his partner was dying, and Sherlock couldn't do a damned thing about that.

Mycroft was not okay either; the Shifter floated beside him in a form of an energy cloud, unable to help – as if there was an invisible shield separating him from the older Holmes.

Sherlock tried his best to keep his expression neutral, but Norton saw right through it. "Hard to keep yourself detached when something like this happens, isn't it? Especially if you have a habit to care about some people in your life. I had it too, until those people proved this habit absolutely wrong."

"Interesting story, but what it has to do with our business?" Sherlock crossed his arms on his chest.

"Everything," Norton replied calmly. "But you'd better curb your impatience: I have quite a story to tell, and it might take a while if you continue to interrupt."

"I have no doubt in your storytelling capabilities, but I have a minor problem of my partner and my brother dying nearby," Sherlock commented, raising his eyebrows. "You do realise that if they die, there would be no deal whatsoever, right?"

"Of course," the psychic smiled sweetly. "I took all precautions and calculated the possibilities. The solution is shockingly simple," with that Norton raised his hand and snapped his fingers once.

To Sherlock's astonishment, everything around them immediately froze, as if turned into a snapshot. Keeping his eyebrows raised, the younger Holmes tilted his head to the right. "No point in asking where did you manage to learn this trick, I presume?"

"You are right, we have a mutual acquaintance," the psychic confirmed. "If I'm not mistaken, he calls himself 'the Shifter'. I met him a long time ago…"

"After the incident with the avalanche, I know," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "How about skipping the reminiscing part and getting down to business?"

"Such eagerness," Norton regarded him with a condescending smile. "That's why I allowed you to infiltrate my corporation. Pity you aren't on my side; I would love to have you as my PA."

"A tempting offer, but unfortunately I have to refuse. I already have an immensely satisfying job, and I won't trade it for anything in the world."

"How dramatic," Norton schooled his face into an expressionless mask. "But it doesn't matter now, because it's time to discuss our business at hand. Speaking of which: can you give it to me?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Give you what?"

"Your hand," the psychic repeated patiently. "You are familiar with the dreamscape, I presume?"

The younger Holmes nodded.

"Excellent," Norton looked around and pointed towards the two armchairs in the opposite corner of the room. "Shall we?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You seriously expect me to trust you as far as going with you in YOUR dreamscape?"

"I have an extensive dossier on you, Sherlock," the banker replied calmly. "Trust is not one of your usual habits, so it's going to be YOUR dreamscape, not mine."

"There's a more reasonable solution to this situation," the younger Holmes contradicted. "A neutral territory. Ideal variant for both of us."

"A joint venture, then," Norton rubbed his hands together. "I thought about that, but wasn't sure you'd agree."

"You have my dossier," Sherlock smiled sweetly. "What does it say about me and risky situations?"

"Touché," tired of waiting, the psychic turned and strolled toward one of the chairs. "How about proving it, then?"

The dark-haired man looked around: at Barlow, still towering protectively nearby; at John and Mycroft, frozen in the middle of terrifying contortion; at Lestrade, blissfully unconscious, and, finally, at the Shifter, their mentor, locked in battle with the shield and, by the look of it, prepared to demolish it at all costs. Their lives depended solely on him now, and letting them down wasn't an option.

"I need some guarantees before we begin," Sherlock said firmly, turning to look at Norton, who at that moment was already sitting in one of the chairs, waiting patiently.

"Totally understandable, but, unfortunately, I'm unable to promise you anything," the banker crossed his arms on his chest. "And it's not because I'm being difficult; the thing is, the result of our conversation can be absolutely unpredictable, therefore…"

"Really?" Sherlock crossed the room and gracefully dropped into the chair alongside Norton's. "Then what's in it for me?"

"A chance to get rid of me once and for all," the banker replied calmly. "Surely that's a reason enough?"

"Taking into account the recent events – not exactly," the younger Holmes subjected Norton to his patented piercing stare. "I'm more interested in you restoring everything to normal conditions. The topic of your elimination can be discussed afterwards."

Not a bit intimidated by Sherlock's stare, the banker smiled almost amiably. "Who says that one excludes the other? I'm totally willing to add an extra bonus to my offer."

"I'm willing to accept it," Sherlock mirrored his smile. "But I'm also interested in knowing the main subject of the deal before entering the dreamscape."

"You call yourself the world's only consulting detective," Norton replied. "I want to find out for myself if it is so. I'm going to tell you a story, and you need to solve it."

"Solve a story?" Sherlock frowned. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I'm going to tell you my story," the banker elaborated calmly. "Unabridged version, so to speak. If you manage to spot the clues and prove me guilty, I will heal your friends and let you do with me anything you'd want."

"If I prove you guilty," Sherlock crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back in his armchair, "my part of the job would be finished. Why would I want to do anything with you afterwards?"

Norton leaned sideways towards the younger Holmes and lowered his voice practically to a whisper. "Oh, but there IS a reason, a very tempting one. Revenge. Don't tell me you hadn't thought about it, after everything that I did with your life and your closest people."

Sherlock looked at him impassively, but there was a slight tension in his posture, betraying his emotions. "It seems your dossier on me isn't completely correct, Mister Norton. I don't seek revenge, my priority is justice."

"As you wish," Norton leaned back and stretched his arm towards Sherlock, palm up. "Shall we?"

The younger Holmes shook his head slightly. "Not yet, I have one more question."

The psychic rolled his eyes in exasperation. "What is it?"

Sherlock waved his arm around, indicating the situation in front of them. "How did you do that? You didn't give a complete answer to my question, and I'd really like to know."

Sighing with obvious displeasure, Norton lowered his arm. "Does it really matter?"

"Yes," the tone of Sherlock's voice left no doubts that his question can't be easily brushed off. "Impress me."

The banker crossed his arms and legs and tilted his head back, leaning it against the headrest. "When my sources provided me with your dossier, I thought they were exaggerating. Turns out they weren't," he raised his head, looking at the younger Holmes closely. "You are irritatingly tenacious, Sherlock Holmes."

"It's part of my job description, Mister Horton," Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, unfazed by Norton's scrutiny. "So?"

"It's a local occurrence of an effect commonly known as the 'black hole'," the psychic explained patiently. "I learned a lot when I was the Shifter's companion, and I hadn't stopped learning even when he left me. Telepathy and the power of suggestion are the simplest things; mastering the time is an entirely another matter."

"Must be extremely energy-consuming," Sherlock remarked thoughtfully. "So you obviously need someone who could serve as a conductor for that energy; to shoulder your burden, so to speak. Am I right?"

"Absolutely," nodding, the psychic extended his arm again, offering his palm to Sherlock. "Let me show you what I'm capable of, and then you can make your choice."

"As if I have one," Sherlock commented acidly. "It's a blackmail, not a deal, and we both know that."

Irritated, Norton growled low in his throat and, turning his open palm downwards, reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. The dark-haired man didn't even have time to object: the dreamscape came crashing down like a tidal wave, and Sherlock had no choice but to give in, allowing the blue mist to wrap around him, whisking him away…

* * *

_A stinging slap brought Sherlock back to his senses, and he moaned, shaking his head and trying to pull himself together._

' _Not what you're used to, I take it,' Norton's sarcastic mental voice penetrated the fog in Sherlock's head, snapping him into alert mode. 'Sorry about that, but it's how things are done here.'_

_Finally opening his eyes, the younger Holmes looked around and immediately struggled to pull himself upright. The view in front of him gave enough reason for that: not only because they appeared to be in a stone hall of a medieval castle, but mainly because there were three versions of Norton. The impeccably suited one he was familiar with; but there were also version with a taste for casual clothes and the black-clad one, both of them looking noticeably younger._

" _Back with us, Mister Holmes? Good," a smirk was clearly heard in Norton's voice. "Normi, would you be so kind to take care of young Sherlock? I have an unfinished business with Norman here, so…"_

" _Of course," in a blink of an eye Norton's black-clad alter ego appeared behind Sherlock and, twisting his arms behind his back, secured them with a pair of steel handcuffs._

_Sherlock, however, wasn't at all surprised by this turn of events. "There was never any case, wasn't there?" the dark-haired man said calmly. "Wait, don't answer. I'm obviously loosing my touch if I failed to recognise a textbook trap behind your generous offer."_

" _That's your main problem, Sherlock," Norton took a step towards his casually dressed alter ego. "You want everything to be clever. But now hush: I have a business to finish. Normi?"_

_The man behind Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders and pressed down, trying to make him kneel. The younger Holmes resisted, and that earned him a vicious kick at the back of his knees. Hissing in pain, Sherlock went down, landing on his knees and gritting his teeth to prevent a moan from escaping._

_Norton shook his head, clicking his tongue reproachfully. "Normi, there's no need to be so ruthless. He's ours, he won't and can't escape, so ease up."_

" _Don't worry, it's not the first time I treated in such manner by someone's loyal dog," Sherlock's voice sounded strained, but the sarcasm was still there. "But do carry on with your business: I'm not sure my patience would last if I remain in this position."_

" _It won't take long, I assure you," with that, Norton turned his back on Sherlock and looked at his other doppelganger. The man in question held his gaze calmly, his posture relaxed and his expression betraying absolutely nothing._

_The banker took a step forward; the man flinched slightly, but held his ground. Norton circled him slowly, looking him up and down, as if he met an old friend who he hadn't seen for many years. Not that he was particularly happy to see him; the expression of disdain on his face spoke volumes._

" _So," the psychic stopped in front of Norman, practically nose-to-nose, "you were hitchhiking in my PA's mind since our disastrous trip to France. A clever move, by the way, but not so ideally executed as you'd thought. You managed to stay hidden most of the time, I must admit, but there were times when I felt you."_

" _You haven't done anything about that, though," Norman tilted his head to the right. "Part of some elaborate plan of yours, I presume?"_

" _No, but your lurking about proved to be entertaining," the banker replied coldly. "Besides, I was sure you're going to learn some useful tricks from my PA."_

" _Even if I did, why do you care?" Norman raised his chin defiantly._

_The psychic smiled slightly. "Judging by your attitude, you're not so optimistic about your own future. Don't be so sullen; I have great plans for you."_

" _That's exactly what has me worried," Norman crossed his arms on his chest. "Because I have a feeling I'm not going to like them."_

_Norton's smile transformed into a smirk. "That is the most unfortunate, because you don't have a choice, I'm afraid," with that, the banker strolled towards the far corner of the hall and, stopping in front of an intricate tiled panel, pressed one of the tiles. The whole panel immediately slid aside, revealing a small niche from which Norton took a leather collar with spikes._

_As soon as Norman saw the collar, he stiffened. "Oh no. No way in hell."_

_Still smirking, the banker walked back towards him. "As I was saying, you don't have a choice, my dear."_

_As soon as he heard those words, Norman went all defensive. "Doesn't mean I'm going to give up without a fight. And I mean it literally."_

" _Such an inspiring threat," the psychic almost purred, stopping and wrapping the collar around his left arm with spikes facing outwards. "I'll be happy to oblige you," with that, he bowed theatrically, lowering his head and therefore making himself an ideal target._

_It was a trap, and Norman realised it perfectly, so he remained still, scowling in condescension. "I'm basically you, just a bit younger; do you really think I can be fooled by such cheap trick?"_

_Norton unhurriedly drew himself to full height and crossed his arms on his chest, minding the spikes carefully. "You're obviously misreading my attempt at being courteous, my dear fellow. But if you wish me to be treacherous, so be it," with that, he moved, swiftly and unexpectedly dealing his vis-à-vis the first blow._

_Whatever happened afterwards went unnoticed by Sherlock, because, right at that instance, he suddenly and purposefully fell onto his side. Normi, caught by surprise, hastened to stop him, but the younger Holmes just pushed him away and finished his intended task, namely changing his position into the more comfortable sitting one._

_Normi, growling in annoyance, cuffed him on the side of the head. "What the hell you think you're doing?"_

_Sherlock turned to look at him, narrowing his eyes and not saying a word, then turned away, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "If you can't understand what I'm doing, there's no point for me to explain. I'm still here and handcuffed – that's all you need to know."_

_Normi growled again, but Sherlock paid no notice to the black-clad man's annoyance: there were more interesting things for him to concentrate on, which he did without any delay._

_As the younger Holmes expected, the psychic's attention seemed to be fully focused on his hand-to-hand combat with his ordinary self; it suited Sherlock just fine, because the last thing he needed for his daring plan to succeed was Norton being aware of it. Sherlock somehow anticipated that dealing with Norton won't be an easy task, but even this knowledge hadn't prepared him for the mild shock which he received while cautiously trying to probe the banker's mind._

_Norton, as it turned out, wasn't so entirely focused on the ongoing battle; the younger Holmes' searching attempt was noticed right away, and that's when the shock actually happened. The psychic not only didn't prevent this attempt, but on the contrary encouraged it, opening his mind for Sherlock and all but pulling him in. 'There's no need for such a hardship when all you have to do is ask,' Norton's mental voice murmured. 'Behold, my dear scout: I have no secrets from you.'_

_That was the only notice Sherlock got before Norton unleashed a stream of information ay him. There was nothing the younger Holmes could do about it, so he just allowed the data to flow through his mind, trying his best not to concentrate on any details._

_It was a clever move on his path, because the banker's plan could have sent any ordinary mind spiralling into madness. Not Sherlock's, though: his ability to distance himself from feelings and emotions came very handy, and the world's only consulting detective observed the impending events with usual controlled calmness._

_There was nowhere to run, no chance of a lucky escape, so Sherlock needed to devise a plan, and he needed to do it as quickly as possible._

_The game was on, and he took the challenge without hesitation…_


	31. Epilogue Happily Ever After Part One

It took a few moments for the Shifter to understand what was happening, and as soon as he did, he rushed back to his suffering soulmate. However, his attempt was quickly stopped by a shield, off which the Shifter bounced with such a velocity that could barely stop himself from being hurtled right through the wall. As an entity, the Shifter had no problem with passing through solid walls, but he did it on his own accord; being propelled by an outside force was totally another matter.

So he struggled to pull himself together and went back near the shield, this time executing all necessary caution. Up close, the shield turned not to be what the Shifter had expected. Instead of a simple barrier, he was facing a complicated weapon, specially created for his destruction. His adversary, it seemed, did everything to let the Shifter know that this was personal: the energy structure of the deceptive shield was designed for the purpose of stripping him of his life energy and tearing him apart. But none of that really mattered, because his soulmate was dying behind this shield, and there wasn't even a trace of doubt for the Shifter as to what he should do.

There was, however, one small detail that required some attention before the Shifter put forth his last resort: his Chosen Ones, his creation and responsibility. To his deepest regret, the Quiet One was beyond his help – having a soulmate meant that should the other similarly merged being interfere, it could've led to disastrous consequences. The thing was, in a bonded pair the soulmates were connected to each other by a net of multiple energy treads and attuned to each other's frequency; cutting in (especially if the third party was bound by similar energy ties) basically equaled a murder attempt.

Ironically, the black hole effect which Norton used to stop the time in this particular room, played to the Shifter's advantage: it was similar to a stasis the Quiet One was kept in recently, and therefore the Shifter could concentrate more fully on the Curious One.

Which he did, only to encounter another restricted area – the Curious One and his adversary were surrounded by the dreamscape field, impenetrable even for the Shifter. The entity cautiously probed the shield and pulled away, satisfied: after all, Norton was not his to deal with in the first place. The Shifter did his best to prepare the Curious One for this exact mission; the rest of it was up to the younger man alone.

Accessing the situation, the entity shifted his attention back to his soulmate. Breaching the shield meant an imminent destruction, so he needed to devise a plan for the part of his being to prevail.

' _It would not be an easy task, Child,'_ the voice of his own Mentor was back, and again in a time of need. _'We warned you in the beginning, but, despite our concerns, you handled your self-chosen task quite well. So it was decided that you should be provided with a necessary guidance in this perilous situation.'_

He suspected that the higher authority was observing him all the time and in such situation was bound to interfere, but still it came as a shock, and the Shifter promptly dropped out into the dreamscape.

_The place was unfamiliar, but, as his human partners would've said, breathtakingly beautiful. A spacious chamber with its walls made of crystals that seemed to glow softly from within, a small waterfall cascading into a small pool of water at the far end of the chamber, and a subtle aroma of flowers drifting through the air from an invisible source – all that gave a sense of security and comfort. At any other time the Shifter would've appreciated it, but with the task at hand, he had no time for the sightseeing._

_Looking around again, he spotted a softly glowing crystal globe on a rised platform near the waterfall, and headed towards it. But as soon as he started moving, the glowing of the walls seemed to intensify tenfold. The Shifter stopped, observing the strange effect and waiting for whatever was going to happen next. As if indulging him, the walls proceeded from glowing to rippling, and a few moments later the other creature of the Shifter's kind appeared, gliding out of the wall and taking a human shape._

_The entity waited for everything to settle down, and as soon as it did, there were eight of his kin, standing in a half-circle. It was only polite to manifest himself as human too, which the Shifter immediately did, adopting the visual appearance of Mycroft Holmes. For a few moments, nobody moved or said anything, and then one of the newcomers glanced around, getting a wave of curt nods; it served as a sort of an agreement, the Shifter supposed, because after that the initiator nodded to himself and took a step forward, meeting the Shifter's gaze._

_The visual appearance of the stranger was that of a blond middle-aged man with refined manners and green eyes, which shone with deep, timeless wisdom._

' _Greetings, Brother,' the entity's mental voice was soft and calming. 'I imagine you're somehow surprised by our appearance..,' the stranger paused, waiting for the Shifter's reaction._

_It was only polite to answer, so the Shifter did just that. 'A bit, but I can't say I wasn't expecting something along this line.'_

_His vis-à-vis raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, were you? Perhaps then you can tell why exactly we all are here?'_

_The Shifter could recognise the mockery when he heard one, so he did his best not to be provoked. 'That would be too overconfident of me. I'm here to listen and learn, not to boast about my abilities.'_

' _Young yet wise,' the stranger smiled, nodding his head and then straightening up. 'So, first things first. Introductions. If we're referring themselves by our human partners' names, then I'm George. Would it be agreeable for you if I would speak on behalf of my kindred?'_

_The rest of the group nodded simultaneously and, taking a step forward (all at once), reached out to George, touching him. Upon being touched, the self-appointed leader of the group shuddered, his whole body glowing with the amount of energy being pumped into him. The process didn't last long, and when it was finished, only George and the Shifter remained in the cave, standing opposite each other._

' _Impressive,' the Shifter remarked thoughtfully. 'So that's how a collective consciousness looks like, I suppose.'_

' _More or less,' George smiled again and looked around. 'I believe we have much to talk about, so shall we get more comfortable?'_

' _Sure, why not,' the Shifter shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh, and speaking about introductions: you can call me Mycroft.'_

' _I know,' George tilted his head to the right. 'Speaking of comfortable: you've never been here before, I take it?'_

' _No, never,' the Shifter admitted._

' _It's an interesting place,' his vis-à-vis turned around and took a step towards the globe. 'It reads your mind and tends to give you what you want,' he made a gesture for the Shifter to follow him. 'For example..,' pausing, he swept his arm in a wide arch in front of him._

_The cave reacted almost immediately: the part with the globe and the waterfall rippled slightly, then dissolved into a sparkling mist, which a moment later rearranged itself into a small but comfortable looking gazebo._

_George looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. 'What do you think?'_

_The Shifter studied the new layout of the cave thoughtfully, then frowned and raised his arm, snapping his fingers. His gesture brought into existence two comfortable armchairs and a table inside the gazebo. 'That's better,' he commented, meeting George's gaze and, after some thoughts, adding a couple of softly glowing candles._

_The blond man frowned and turned his head, observing the changes. Then he clicked his tongue and waved his arm again._

_A set of white curtains appeared inside the gazebo, hiding the interior from view, and two lanterns illuminated the entrance with a soft glow. The walls of the cave dimmed gradually, leaving the gazebo as the sole source of light._

_George turned to face the Shifter again. 'They told me I should keep my distance,' his smile was graced with a touch of sadness. 'I was meant to be just an advisor, someone to acquaint you with necessary facts…'_

_The Shifter took a step forward and reached out, placing his hand on George's arm. 'Doesn't work like that, does it?'_

_The green-eyed man looked at the hand on his arm, then placed his own hand over it and patted it lightly. 'I don't think the humans gave much thought to this aspect when they were creating us. It's a matter of a trial and error, because they left us on our own in this.'_

' _Yet there's eight of our kind who managed to live it through, as I understand,' the Shifter remarked. 'You are one of them, I believe?'_

_George nodded, a shadow of pain flickering in his clear gaze. 'Yes, but it cost plenty.'_

_The Shifter squeezed George's arm slightly. 'I think we should go inside. That's why we created this gazebo after all, don't you think? You can tell me everything after we'd settle down.'_

_George looked at him for a few moments, not saying anything, then turned and headed towards their creation. The Shifter followed him, and soon they were sitting in the armchairs across from each other._

' _So… Eight of you in total. What is it like? Is it a past experience for you, or are you still committed?' the Shifter leaned forward slightly, his expression curious._

_George regarded his eagerness with an amused smile. 'It's nothing like the usual merging, Mycroft. Perhaps first of all I should explain some basics for you?'_

' _If you would be so kind,' the Shifter replied, clasping his hands together and preparing to absorb all the information George was about to reveal._

_The blond man leaned back in his armchair, steepled his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, with a deep breath, his emerald eyes opened, and he fixed his vis-à-vis with an intense stare. 'I have no doubt you're aware that our kind can exist in different states, and most of them require us to be merged. But there's two types of merging, not one: free will and sacrifice. You are quite familiar with the first one; as for the second – its main principle is totally different. It's more like a fusion instead of merging; you ought to give yourself up and become one with the human. Moreover, you should make the human aware of your intention, and explain everything about the procedure.'_

' _What if the human refuses to accept the offer?' the Shifter interrupted, mirroring Georges' pose._

' _There is a possibility, yes,' George confirmed softly. 'Oddly enough, nobody up to this moment went for that option. As for your charge, I doubt he will be so reckless as to throw away his only chance of survival. As for your other question – once you're committed, it's impossible to separate, even for such a simple thing as projection. So no, I'm not committed right now.'_

' _I thought as much,' the Shifter remarked, unclasping his hands and leaning back in his chair. 'How many of them?'_

_George's expression became clouded, his gaze going out of focus for a few moments. The Shifter kept silent, respecting his vis-à-vis' privacy and memories. Recognising that, the blond nodded in gratitude and took a deep breath. 'Eight so far, and it's been two months of human time since the last one,' he paused, biting his lower lip in an attempt to keep himself under control. 'It's never easy…'_

' _I know,' the Shifter leaned forward and, placing his hand on George's arm, squeezed slightly. 'We were never meant to be emotionally involved with our human partners. But, as humans tend to say, everything changes.'_

_Grateful for support, George gave him a small smile and, rising to his feet, began to pace across the gazebo. 'Humans have become wiser over the course of time, it's quite remarkable,' the blond man stopped at the entrance, looking out into the darkened cave, 'But they still have much to learn. The same goes for you, for that matter.'_

' _Quite an unexpected turn,' the Shifter remarked, not at all surprised by this abrupt change of topic. 'I guess we're coming to a part of our conversation where you tell me all about how I should handle everything that waits for me outside this dreamscape.'_

' _I have a better idea,' George walked back and stopped near the Shifter's armchair. 'I think it would be more effective if I just show you. Do you mind?'_

' _Not at all, George,' the Shifter looked at his kindred, a small smile curving his lips. 'What do you need me to do?'_

_George dragged his armchair closer and sat down, rubbing his palms together. 'Nothing, Mycroft. Just sit back, close your eyes and relax. I'll do the rest.'_

_Without further ado, the Shifter did as he was told, and soon felt George's fingertips touching his temples. 'You'll need to act as soon as I finish relaying the information, so get ready. And good luck, Mycroft.'_

' _Thank you, George,' the Shifter replied. 'And… likewise. Who knows, maybe we'd meet again sometime.'_

_The blond man hummed quietly, and the pressure of his fingertips increased. 'Everything's possible. Alright, Mycroft, you'd better brace yourself – the knowledge I'm about to transmit is quite extensive, and you need to take it all in one go – time is of the essence now.'_

_The Shifter took a deep breath and gave a slight nod. 'I'm ready. Hit me with all you've got'._

The rest was pain and light, and the Shifter dropped out of dreamscape with his mind still struggling to absorb the information and make sense of it in order to formulate his further strategy. He needed time for that, and time was exactly what he didn't have at the moment.

Norton's shield shimmered slightly in front of him, and his soulmate lay deathly pale behind it, so the Shifter gathered all his energy and lunged through the shield, reaching towards his soulmate mentally at the same time.

Entities were unfamiliar with concept of pain – personally, that was. They could detect it in humans – basically it served as a beacon to draw the entity in. But as for themselves – it wasn't covered in the manual, as the Curious one would've probably said about the Shifter's predicament. There also was another human saying which the Shifter could attribute to his situation – 'There's a first time for everything', and this one he was about to face on his own.

When he touched the shield, nothing happened, except for a slight ripple that seemed to affect his whole being. But it was bearable, so the Shifter pressed on, still trying to connect with the older Holmes' mind – regrettably, without any result.

It began as a burning sensation, but that was enough for the Shifter to halt his movement and pull back, disengaging from the shield's grip. Concerned about his soulmate, the entity completely disregarded the danger of the shield; the wake up call was swift and effective. Norton's creation was designed to tear the Shifter apart, so, in order to prevail, the entity needed to devise a plan – some sort of protection that would've allowed it to pass through the shield relatively unscathed.

The solution came a moment later: a multilayered cocoon that could be peeled off while the core remained untouched. Such an operation required precision: the Shifter needed a formidable protection and at the same time couldn't afford to be stretched too thin.

As a result, he ended up with twenty layers woven around him in a neat cocoon. After that, nothing prevented him from making the second attempt of confronting the shield.

Needless to say, he did exactly that.

The shield teared off most of the layers, but he still had three or four when he finally broke through and faced his soulmate. Mycroft remained frozen in a time field, so the only way to contact him was the dreamscape. Taking that into account, the Shifter reached out mentally, his touch on Mycroft's mind feather-light and gentle. He didn't expect for the first connection to be successful, and was pleasantly surprised when his soulmate reached out in turn, establishing the link and therefore allowing them both to drop into the dream environment a moment later.

_As the Shifter had expected, they emerged into the same cave where he met George and company not too long ago. Even the gazebo was still in place, but this time the entity had more pressing matters at hand than admiring the view._

_He couldn't see his soulmate at first, so he looked around carefully, spotting a strange newly formed cluster of crystals at the far end of the cave, directly opposite the entrance of the gazebo. The difference between those crystals and the rest of the cave was that instead of the soft glow they were giving out rhythmical flashes, as if demanding immediate attention. Attracted by those signals, the Shifter crossed the cave and stopped short, unsure how to react to the view in front of him._

_Dreamscape is a curious thing: seemingly unconnected with the reality it, however, tends to reflect the changes in said reality by adapting its environment accordingly. Just like now, when it reacted to Mycroft's condition by encasing him in a bunch of flashing crystals. The Shifter leaned close to the crystal structure and noticed with relief that his soulmate's eyes were open, although slightly unfocused._

' _My Dearest One,' the entity called softly, afraid to cause his partner additional harm. 'I know that our adversary dealt you a painful blow, but I need to speak with you. It's urgent. I think I can help, but for that to happen, your permission is required.'_

_At first, there was no reaction, but soon Mycroft's eyes closed and then opened slowly, trying to focus on his soulmate. It took him several tries, but when he finally succeeded, the entity saw the grey eyes widen in surprise. Having analysed this strange fact, the Shifter looked down and promptly shapeshifted into Damian Melford._

_The older Holmes blinked and the crystals surrounding his head started to glow a bit brighter. Right after that, Mycroft's mental voice echoed through the cave, weak and strained. 'They say that each one of us has a perfect double somewhere in this world. I used to doubt it. Clearly I was wrong.'_

_Mycroft Holmes was many things, but he certainly wasn't sentimental, so those words triggered all sorts of alarms in the Shifter's mind. 'Is anything wrong, Precious One?'_

_Mycroft blinked again. 'Not to my knowledge. Why?'_

_He sounded genuinely puzzled, and the Shifter cursed inwardly, shielding his thoughts. Mycroft Holmes was self-confident in the extreme, and catching him unawares was virtually impossible. To see him like this, helpless and vulnerable, was the most terrifying experience for the Shifter; he had to do something about that, the sooner the better._

' _No reason,' the entity replied nonchalantly. 'I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.'_

_The shift in Mycroft's awareness was almost tangible. 'Then, by all means, let us proceed with that discussion.'_

_The entity took a moment to collect his thoughts, and then plunged ahead. 'I deceived you, my Dearest One. For that, you have my sincerest apologies.'_

_The older Holmes kept silent, waiting for his soulmate to continue. Whatever condition he was in, the main principle of his modus operandi remained unchanged: always consider the situation it its fullest before taking any action._

_The Shifter couldn't disappoint him. Not now, and not ever. 'When we'd first met, I told you that you were dying because of wounds after the assassination attempt. It was only partially true…'_

' _A malignant brain tumour, I know,' Mycroft interrupted casually, causing the Shifter to freeze in bewilderment. 'I knew it from the beginning, and chose not to disclose this information.'_

_Silence fell after that, comfortable and meaningful, with both soulmates contemplating something. Mycroft's face was calm and serene, and the Shifter's eyes were alight with warmth and wonder._

' _They were wrong about you. And I made the best choice ever,' the entity murmured. 'All I have to do is save you one more time.'_

_The older Holmes frowned. 'It never occurred to me that you are able to be so sentimental. Could it be that I somehow misjudged your character?'_

_A sad smile touched the Shifter's lips. 'Rationality like armour. No, I'm not being sentimental. I'm just trying to offer you a way out of this situation.'_

' _Do you realise how strange it sounds? Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't we supposed to escape together?' Mycroft's forehead was creased in full-blown worry now._

' _Yes, we are,' the entity confirmed. 'But for that to happen, something needs to be changed between us. Namely our bond, to be exact.'_

' _Unfortunately, my analytical skill is not up to par at the moment, so I'd rather you elaborated,' the older man remarked, his facial features once again reverting to patented unreadable mask._

' _With pleasure,' the Shifter replied casually. 'Our adversary disrupted our connection, and although I've done everything to shorten that period, the damage have already been done. Your condition is critical, and I can't continue to use only supportive treatment. I need to heal you completely… at cost of my own existence.'_

_For several moments, Mycroft Holmes remained completely silent. The Shifter did the same, giving his soulmate the time to process the news. Granted, it was a lot to take in, and the older Holmes was also under a significant strain, but such a decision could only be made after a thorough weighting of all pros and cons. More to the point, it was Mycroft's decision entirely, so the Shifter was prepared to wait as long as it would take._

_It took less than the entity had expected, but he was right about his soulmate's reaction. Any ordinary person would've been in a state of shock, but Mycroft could hardly be considered as the ordinary person. The Shifter felt the subtle change in Mycroft's mind pattern almost immediately: his soulmate had made a decision, which he was determined to follow through to the end._

_That left only one question: what kind of a decision it was._

' _I recall you telling me upon our first meeting that our bond was a lifetime deal,' Mycroft's voice was quiet and thoughtful. 'Are you trying to tell me the deal is broken?'_

' _On the contrary,' the Shifter let a small smile touch his lips. 'I'm about to make sure it's going to be infinitely solid.'_

' _Meaning?' Mycroft even made an effort of rising a questioning eyebrow._

' _Up until now, we we both cohabiting your body,' the entity elaborated calmly. 'With the necessity to heal your tumour, I have no choice but to progress our bond from simple symbiosis to a full fusion. We are to become the one whole, and, regrettably, it means that you would be forced to bear the burden of the gift.'_

' _Why would you..,' Mycroft frowned, perplexed, but a moment later his face cleared. 'Ah, of course. I asked you in the beginning not to give me any abilities. But, in the light of latest events, I can definitely say that I had a reason to reconcider.'_

' _Somehow I knew that it would be so,' the Shifter smiled. 'In that case, there's no point in wasting time. Just relax; I promise to be as careful as possible. As for the necessary information, I'm going to give it to you during the fusion. What do you say?'_

_Mycroft rised both eyebrows. 'Well, then. Let us fuse.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part will be up next Sunday.
> 
> Seriously. I promise.


	32. Epilogue Happily Ever After Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. Sorry for the wait...  
> Warning: mild swearing

The disruption device had been programmed to shut down automatically, which it eventually did. The black hole field went down soon after that, leaving the occupants of the room in a stunned silence. All bonds snapped back in place, and Damian Melford was the first to react, rising gingerly from the floor and shaking his head, his expression puzzled. As a gifted one, he had no trouble registering all the changes which transpired during the recent artificially created lockdown; however, his attempt to issue a warning was thwarted by another equally strong and gifted player in the room.

Sherlock was up and out of his chair in a blink of an eye, whirling towards Norton and launching a brute physical attack. The banker struggled furtively as he was pulled to his feet, spun around and taken into a merciless chokehold.

"No!" Damian screamed, lunging forward in a useless attempt to prevent the inevitable.

Sherlock turned his head towards the PA, teeth bared in a predatory grin, and then, repositioning his arms, snapped Norton's neck with a flick of his wrists.

The gained momentum brought Damian closer to the cold-blooded murderer whom Sherlock has just shockingly and unexpectedly become.

"You had a chance to poke around in my mind, my dear Melford," the younger Holmes said calmly, letting go of Norton's lifeless body. "You knew how it all was supposed to end."

The PA looked at him and then at the body on the floor. "Yes," he said quietly. "I knew. But you missed something important, and that was your biggest mistake… Maybe even two mistakes, to be exact."

"How interesting," Sherlock's – or, rather, Norton's, - voice was mockingly patient. "Am I supposed to ask what do you mean by that?"

"You can," Damian agreed. "But more effective way would be just to check the condition of your new host's brain."

Norton wordlessly raised his eyebrows, and Melford shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to elaborate.

Right at that moment their silent conversation was interrupted by the older Holmes, who, after groaning softly, made an attempt to get up from the floor. He wasn't left on his own in this task: Barlow and Lestrade, who were also conscious, lent him their support at once. They didn't notice the change at first; only when all three of them were finally standing, did Stanley take a look at Mycroft's eyes. Alarmed, the sandy-haired doctor stepped away and tugged at Greg's sleeve. The DI frowned at him in puzzlement, then glanced around and, spotting the drastic change in their host, narrowed his eyes.

"Now isn't the right time for special effects, Mycroft," Lestrade murmured, taking a quick look at the situation across the room. "We need a plan."

Mycroft blinked, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but a moment later his face cleared. "Oh," he said softly. "You are referring to the coloring my presence causes. Apologies for that, but it's the only thing I'm unable to do anything about."

"Again with the cryptic talk," Greg shook his head. "Shifter, isn't it?"

Mycroft's lips curved into a slight smile. "Not exactly, my dearest Gregory, but the creature you're referring to is also there. We were soulmates before; now we are the one."

Greg opened his mouth, thought better about it and groaned in despair. "Just what the hell did I do to deserve all of this?" he mumbled unhappily and then went silent.

The older Holmes nodded in approval and turned to access the situation which his brother was currently in. It took him merely a second to understand what was going on, and then he casually joined the conversation. "I remember telling you once that every plan should be well-thought and all probabilities accounted," he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You'll never learn."

"Look who is talking," Norton-Sherlock bared his teeth. "You had tricked your soulmate into doing a dirty job for you, and now, when he is suffering the consequences, you are playing savior and taking over his life."

The new version of Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You also kept your manner of judging people strictly by your standard. Another crucial mistake."

"But I have your vessel's most precious little brother under control," Norton seemed not to pay any attention to what his adversary was saying. "We are not so different after all, Shifter. If it is still your name."

"Yes, it is," the older Holmes confirmed. "And your assistant is right, by the way: you should've checked young Sherlock's condition. His brain, to be exact. But I have to warn you – you are not going to like it."

Norton flashed him a predatory grin and closed his eyes. Mycroft shook his head and turned to look at Barlow and Lestrade.

"My work here is concluded," he announced, his voice sounding tired. "Stanley, Gregory, if you be so kind as to accompany me, it would be greatly appreciated."

Barlow shifted from foot to foot, looking at John's motionless form in hesitation. "But sir…"

"A noble aspiration, Doctor Barlow, but unfortunately there's nothing you can do for your patient now," the older Holmes turned to look at his possessed brother again. "None of us can, as a matter of fact. We fulfilled our roles, now it's Sherlock's turn to finish this play."

The DI took a step closer to Mycroft, patting Stanley's arm on the way. "He is right, Stanley. Time for us to go and let Sherlock solve everything, as he always does."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft turned and headed toward the door. "By the way, there's something I need to discuss with you in private, and it's urgent, Detective Inspector."

"Sure thing," the DI shrugged his shoulders. "But how about your private place being somewhere nearby, in case Sherlock would need some help?"

Slowing down and then stopping completely, the older Holmes looked over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Gregory, all we need is to cross the corridor. As for you, Stanley, it would be reasonable to stay in the doctors' lounge. Something tells me your services will be required quite soon."

"Well, in that case I should be ready, shouldn't I?" the sandy-haired doctor took his last look first at Sherlock, then at John, and left the room without a backward glance.

Lestrade waited until the moment the door closed behind Stanley, then turned to look at Mycroft, a mischievous smile lighting his face. "Just out of curiosity: you have plans for him too, don't you?"

The older Holmes traded smile for smile. "Contrary to your belief, I don't have a tendency to control everything. Especially when there is someone far better suited for the job."

"Really?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "And who that someone might be?"

"Take a guess, my dear Gregory," Mycroft turned and headed to the door. "I'm sure you can figure it out on your own."

The DI frowned but followed the older Holmes, puzzling his words over. There were six people in the castle now, and only he and Stan had no connection with the whole supernatural background. Well, in his case that sort of wasn't true, but still, as far as everything went, the two of them were ordinary people. So who could have been interested in making Stanley Barlow not so ordinary?

There wasn't really a lot of deducing to do: with Mycroft, Sherlock and John sort of already engaged, only Damian Melford remained on his own, although Lestrade could recall the Shifter's words about Norton's PA getting the short end of the stick in this whole bonding thing. So Damian was hurt, and there was only one man in their small company who dedicated his life to helping those who suffered.

Besides, Melford and Barlow seemed to know each other, so the choice was logical.

' _Bravo, Gregory,'_ Mycroft's mental voice sounded in his head, causing the DI to nearly collide with the owner of said voice, who now stood in the middle of the corridor, looking at him with those weird sky-blue eyes. _'My sincerest apologies, dear Gregory, I didn't mean to startle you.'_

Lestrade took a step back, shaking his head. _'My fault. I still can't come to grips with this whole telepathy thing. But I'm a quick learner, so give me a couple days – and you won't be disappointed.'_

' _Quite a statement, Detective Inspector,'_ the older Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels once. _'You managed to come to some conclusions, I see. Care to enlighten me?'_

' _We both know that I'm not going to say anything new, but if you don't mind..,'_ the DI began, only to be interrupted in the most polite manner.

' _Not at all,'_ Mycroft's voice sounded in his mind, warm and soft. _'Do tell.'_

' _When I was sharing my body with John, he let me see into his mind,'_ Lestrade began. _'There was a conversation between him and Sherlock when we arrived here, concerning you calling me by first name. Sherlock surmised you were going to make an offer to me. You did, the next day.'_

' _And you turned me down,'_ Mycroft replied, his strange eyes shining brightly.

' _Well..,'_ Greg looked down and then locked gazes with the older Holmes again. ' _I had time to think it trough. I accept your offer and everything that comes with it.'_

' _Brave and courageous,'_ the older man's smile was equal in warmth with his shining eyes. _'If this question appears to be settled, let us proceed to the next stage. Follow me, please. We'll be more comfortable in the command centre, I believe.'_

' _The command centre?'_ Lestrade's eyebrows made a swift climb towards his hairline. _'You have the command centre in your..,'_ he paused and shook his head. _'Never mind.'_

' _There are a lot of things you don't know about me yet, dear Gregory,'_ turning around, Mycroft headed to the door. _'But we'll work on it.'_

' _Yes, about that,'_ the DI remained where he stood, shifting from foot to foot in uncertainty. _'We are going to bond, I suppose?'_

The older Holmes stopped and turned to look at him. _'Correct. Is it a problem?'_

There was a sudden mischievous spark in Lestrade's eyes, and, squaring his shoulders, he took a step forward. _'None at all, but I should warn you: I have some secrets too.'_

' _I suspected you would,'_ turning again, Mycroft crossed the rest of the distance to the door and opened it. _'There's a great thing about secrets – they make life far more interesting, don't you agree?'_ with that, he disappeared into the room.

The DI's lips curved into a trademark boyish grin. "You have absolutely no idea," he murmured, hurrying after his soon-to-be soulmate into the room and closing the door…

* * *

_**Meanwhile in the intensive care room…** _

As soon as Mycroft with his escort left the room, Norton, with his eyes still closed, swayed and brought a hand to his face. It touched something warm and wet, and he frowned, pulling his hand away and looking at his fingers which were smeared with blood.

"I warned you, but you didn't listen," firmly taking his boss by the arm, Damian pulled him towards the chair. The psychic stumbled along, too disoriented from pain to resist, and allowed Melford to sit him down.

"Well done on picking a perfect moment to kill me, Damian," Norton hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed and full of hatred. Blood now run in thick rivulets down his chin, staining the white shirt, but he paid no attention to that.

Melford sighed and shook his head, his dark eyes full of sadness and compassion. "That's the main difference between us, sir – I'm not addicted to revenge and power. Besides," he made a sharp turn on his heels and glanced back over his shoulder, "there's no need for me to do anything at this point: you basically initiated a self-destruct when you took young Sherlock over. Good luck in figuring a way of getting yourself out of this mess," he strolled out of the room without a backward glance, paying no attention to Norton's pained growl of 'Where do you think you're going?' Time was running short: Damian could feel Sherlock's pain seeping through the link and intensifying with every second. It was hard enough to cope with, and the PA was just a third party; for John and Sherlock it must have been an absolute nightmare. Regrettably, Melford couldn't do anything to help; moreover, he needed to find solution to his own problem, or he was as good as dead too.

He didn't have a lot of options: Mycroft Holmes clearly showed his intentions towards DI Lestrade, so this variant was out. Which left Stanley Barlow, who, as Damian remembered, should now be waiting in the doctor's lounge, wherever it might be. Now, it was time to find him.

When Melford and Barlow met for the first time, Damian created a neural link between them – purely for practice and partly as the means to contact the physician in case of emergencies. The current situation, in Melford's opinion, could surely be considered as one, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and reached into his mind, activating the link.

' _Stanley, it's me, Damian. Where are you now?'_

To say that Barlow was surprised to hear Melford's voice in his head was to say nothing. Alarmed, he shot up from the chair, stumbled and barely managed to grab a hold of the table to the left of him to stop himself from falling face first onto the floor.

"Dam?" he blurted, looking around in confusion. "What the hell?"

' _Just tell me where are you, there's no time to waste,'_ there was pain in Damian's voice. _'I'll explain everything later.'_

"I'm in a room next to one we all were in,' the sandy-haired doctor said promptly. "But…"

' _Hold on, I'm coming in,'_ Melford interrupted, and a moment later the door to the room opened, admitting a bit worse for wear looking Damian.

Stanley's eyes widened. "No offense, Dam, but you look like shit."

"None taken," Melford flashed him a rather tired but still infectious smile. "Though I must admit that it's the case of feeling better than looking. No reason to worry, Stan."

The sandy-haired doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Can't help it, Dam. Worrying about people's wellbeing is pretty much my job description. So… what's happened?"

Melford looked around, spotted an armchair behind Barlow's back (to the left of one the doctor recently vacated), and headed straight to it. "What did you manage to learn about the concept of soulmates so far, Stan?"

Barlow followed his example, reclaiming the armchair. "Can't say that I found much. Why?"

Turning in his direction, Damian reached out and placed his hand on Stan's arm. "I'm willing to provide you with a food for thought in regard of that topic, if you are ready to consider an offer I'm about to make."

Barlow looked at Damian's hand on his arm, eyebrows furrowing. "What kind of an offer?"

The PA brought his other hand into action, reaching out again and entwining their fingers. "I would be honoured to accept you as my soulmate, if you are interested in such an experience."

Stanley tilted his head to the right, looking at Damian with his usual warm, open smile. "Sure. As long as I'm not expected to speak in this… upper crust manner. "

Melford frowned in confusion. "Upper crust? What do you..," he paused, face brightening, "Oh, of course. Sorry about that. I tend to speak like that when I'm nervous."

"That's good to hear," Stan gave Damian's fingers a slight squeeze. "Although I'm more than willing to master the skill of a proper talk if you're not averse to teaching me."

Melford raised his eyebrows. "Not much for me to teach, apparently. You're doing great on your own. Being a soulmate, on the other hand, there I can definitely give you some pointers as to how the whole thing works."

"Now that's an offer I simply can't refuse," Barlow flashed him a wide grin. "One suggestion, though: I'm a practical man, so can we do the learning en route?"

"Agreed," Damian pulled his hand out of Stan's grasp and rose from the armchair. "Let's get comfortable – I'm about to create a mental and physical link between us, and sometimes it can be a bit tiring."

"Sure," Barlow got up too. "Sofa?"

"Excellent choice," Damian walked to the sofa and sat down. "Now all you need to do is settle in, relax and let me do the rest of the work."

The sandy-haired doctor obeyed without hesitation, and allowed Melford to place his hands on his chest and forehead. "Can we go and help Sherlock afterwards?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?" Damian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Now shush, and let me work."

"Sorry," Stanley closed his eyes and promptly broadcasted the image of Sherlock into Damian's mind, causing the PA to sigh in exasperation.

"Alright, fine, the first thing we'll do afterwards is go and help Sherlock," Melford growled. "Now shut the hell up and try not to think at all…"

* * *

The man in question, however, was determined to solve his problem without anyone's help, so, using the fact that Norton was more than out of shape, he tore apart the shield that held him captive, and pulled them both into the dreamscape.

_They ended up on a jagged cliff over a stormy sea: Norton – on the ground, curled into a ball, his nose and ears bleeding, and Sherlock – sitting nearby, cross-legged and pointedly NOT looking at his adversary. He was bleeding too, but managed to stem the flow with the handkerchief._

' _You are desperate to kick me down from this cliff right now, I imagine,' Norton sneered, wiping the blood with the cuff of his shirt. 'There's a minor problem of me taking you along, of course, but it's just a small inconvenience in comparison to the fact of you getting rid of me once and for all.'_

' _Getting a taste of your own medicine, aren't you, Norton?' Sherlock bared his teeth in a grin. 'Must be really messing with your mind if you are willing to trade your conquering plans for death.'_

' _Who says I'm not making some profit out of it?' Norton matched him grin for grin. 'I'm dying, taking you with me, and your precious John follows us to the dark beyond. Neat, don't you think?'_

' _Ish,' Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows. 'There's a small flaw in your plan, and, given that usually you're quite thorough, I'm surprised you'd overlooked it.'_

' _Really?' the banker sneered. 'Care to enlighten me about this flaw?'_

' _Your precious empire,' the younger Holmes elaborated. 'You probably have some backup plan in case of emergencies, but did you take your PA into account? Because if you are no more, he can easily take your corporation over.'_

' _It is entirely possible,' Norton confirmed, getting comfortable. 'But, considering that I will be dead, would it matter for me what fate befalls my creation?'_

_Sherlock did his best to keep his expression neutral, but behind the façade was absolute turmoil. Norton's reaction was unexpected; not shockingly so, but Sherlock didn't anticipate the psychic's intention to give up his life's work so easily._

' _Interesting turn of the events, isn't it?' Norton smirked, tilting his head to the right. 'It never occurred to any of you that I may have a death wish, and appoint you as a weapon of my destruction.'_

' _On the contrary,' Sherlock kept his voice neutral, but his mind was working overtime. He needed to persuade Norton to heal John. It was the only thing that mattered, and if Sherlock succeeded in accomplishing that, he was ready to sacrifice himself. Mycroft and the Shifter could help John after that. Their mentor was wise enough to handle that; and Mycroft, in turn, could take a good care of John afterwards._

' _I can hear you, you know,' Norton remarked conversationally. 'And, to tell the truth, I could never understand the ones like you. You are too rational to give in to sentiments, and yet, when it comes to matters concerning your significant one, all your rationality goes out of the window. Why? What's so special about John?'_

_Sherlock felt his lips stretching into a grin. 'Quite a question from the man who is adept at using people as means to reach his goals. You are bound to have a firm grasp of human psychology, if you are really who you are claim to be.'_

' _Hmm..,' there was a dangerous spark in the banker's eyes, and he got up, dusting his suit. 'I may as well go and find out myself. How's that for an answer?'_

_Sherlock was up and in Norton's face in a flash. 'Don't you dare!' he hissed, eyes murderous. 'Or I…'_

' _Or you what?' the psychic scowled. 'Look at yourself! All emotional and not an ounce of common sense. I'm starting to seriously have doubts about my decision to keep you alive. Your remarkable brain cells appear to be flooded by emotions, and right now that's absolutely unacceptable.'_

' _Oh, really?' Sherlock jerked his head up, looking at Norton with disdain. 'Well, that's unfortunate, because last time I checked, you were stuck with me. Permanently. So… Be afraid, Norton. Be VERY afraid.'_

_Sighing in exasperation, Norton drew back his right arm and knocked Sherlock out with a calculated hit to the younger Holmes' left temple. "As if," he smirked, turning on his heels and dropping out of the dreamscape._

Taking a moment to get his bearings, Norton rose from the armchair and went to John's bed. Sherlock's soulmate was conscious and tried to smile, but the pain transformed his smile into a mismatched grimace. The banker grinned in return… and then proceeded to burn the construct in John Watson's brain, making sure that John remembered every painful second of that process.

John couldn't even scream – he wheezed, chocking on his own blood, his body trashing on the bed, hands clawing for purchase and not finding any on the smooth sheets.

Norton's last strike was the epitome of pain, and John finally passed out, body going limp on tangled sheets.

The psychic took a step back, admiring his handiwork. "We will see who is going to be afraid, young Sherlock," he murmured in satisfaction. "However it turns out, you or me going to have a lot of fun starting from scratch and winning John Watson over."

He walked slowly back and forth across the room, preparing for what was about to come. He had no idea how it was going to end, but he knew one thing for certain: he was going to let the situation sort itself out. If he were to survive, he would see it as an added bonus; if he were to die… well, then it was his fate. He made all necessary arrangements before leaving London: his finances, his network, his whole corporation – it was all taken care of, and everything was in the right hands. But those were just the details, smaller parts of the bigger picture.

He left the safety and comfort of his mansion in London for only one reason: he was bored. Bored with his perfectly organised life, hating every second of it. Suffocating in his neat mansion, dying bit by bit from the inside. To see the world through the eyes of another, to start everything anew... Oh, what an adventure it might turn to be...

Taking a deep breath, he walked to the armchair and sat down. He was ready.

_The wind hit him with full force, making him shiver and pull his suit coat tighter around himself. Sherlock was still sprawled on the ground, unconscious, and Norton knelt beside him, reaching out and placing his hand on the younger Holmes' forehead. The younger man's reaction came a few seconds later: he opened his eyes first, and pulled away second, slipping out from under the banker's palm._

_Norton waited patiently while Sherlock scrambled to get himself into an upright position, then gracefully rose to his feet._

' _Sorry for interrupting our previous conversation so rudely, but I needed to take care of some urgent matters,' the banker explained, crossing his arms on his chest. 'Your precious John is safe, and almost in perfect condition, by the way. And I'm ready to make you an offer.'_

_Sherlock's eyes flashed with fury, but otherwise he showed no reaction at Norton's words._

' _I thought so,' the banker acknowledged. 'Nevertheless, here is my offer: we sort this mess out by jumping off this cliff, and whoever survives, gets the chance to go on with his life. Are you up to that?'_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes, locking their gazes, and Norton raised his eyebrow, not intimidated even in the slightest. 'Straight off the cliff and the fittest will survive,' the younger Holmes intoned. 'Yes, I'm up to that. Are you?'_

_Instead of answering, Norton barrelled into him and a moment later they both were flung into the air and plummeted down, the dark surface of the ocean seemingly rushing forward to meet them. Then they were hitting the water and the jagged rocks beneath, and the world went black..._

* * *

The two newly bonded pairs met in the corridor, looking each other over and acknowledging their respect by curt nods. Mycroft and Damian were practically glowing with satisfaction; Greg and Stanley looked shell-shocked and seemed to gravitate towards each other on pure instinct, giving and receiving so needed support. Their soulmates watched them with fond amusement, but made no attempts to intrude.

Damian made an effort of shifting his gaze away from Stanley, and looked at Mycroft instead. "Everything went as planned?"

"Hmm?" the politician replied absentmindedly, his eyes following Lestrade's every movement. "Ah, yes. Better than I could've hoped. You were equally successful, as I can see."

"Absolutely," Melford confirmed – and here he was again, unable to take his eyes off Barlow's soft smile and shining eyes. "But as much as I appreciate staying in present company, I believe we do have a small matter to settle."

"Certainly," the older Holmes surfaced from his trancelike state and delved right into problem solving. "We are going back to the intensive care room, but keeping Stanley and Gregory behind our backs. They aren't exactly in perfect condition for prompt reactions. Are you up to using the brute force if necessary?"

Lestrade, who appeared to be keeping track of their quiet conversation in addition to having his own with Barlow, turned to look Mycroft straight in the eyes and flashed him a provocative grin. "No offence, Mycroft, but when it comes to brute force, you and Damian are not exactly the ones who fit the description. The same goes for Stanley, by the way. I'll deal with the physical side of the operation; you'll play your mind games. Agreed?"

"I have a feeling that discouraging you would be absolutely pointless," the older Holmes replied politely. "Besides, having you with me is paramount for our bond to form properly. Agreed."

Having decided on the course of action, all four of them strolled towards the room in question, determined to tackle the problem in any way necessary. Mycroft was the first to cross the threshold, accessing the situation and gesturing for the others to proceed with caution. There was no immediate need for the brute force, that one was clear: both men in the room were unconscious and in a bad condition; however, the most vital question remained unanswered.

Who, exactly, were they looking at: Sherlock Holmes or Norman Norton?

Mycroft was ready to address this problem personally, when a small commotion behind his back drew his attention: Damian was all of a sudden catching Stanley by the sleeve and trying to stop the sandy-haired doctor's attempt to rush towards John's bed. The older Holmes could totally understand him: Barlow's purpose in life was to heal and to help, and John was obviously in need of that.

"Let him go, Mister Melford," Mycroft ordered. "Doctor Watson isn't the one we should be afraid of, so Doctor Barlow may as well attend his patient, don't you think?"

"Of course," Damian agreed, letting go of Stanley and even accompanying him. "Be careful, sir."

Nodding in acknowledgement, the older Holmes crossed the room and, stopping in front of his brother's unresponsive form, leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tapped into the Shifter's abilities.

He hadn't been prepared to the things he saw. Moreover, he seriously doubted that this experience could be softened in any way. If it wasn't for Greg who managed to get to him in time and grab him before he dived face first on top of his younger brother's body, Mycroft would have been terribly embarrassed. Two strong arms wrapped around his torso from behind, and he was hoisted up, his soulmate holding him close and lending support. He briefly wondered if he should be uncomfortable with someone so boldly invading his personal space, but everything felt so right that he pushed his thoughts aside and just leaned back into the embrace, smiling slightly as his partner grunted and adjusted his hold.

Mycroft's smugness, however, didn't last long: there was a quiet curse from Barlow, and they all turned to look at the physician who, at the moment, was too busy trying to thwart John's attempt to sit in his bed.

"He's awake," came Stanley's late warning, and a moment later Damian was at his side, helping to calm John down.

The blond doctor, however, was having none of it – he still tried to fight his way out of Barlow and Melford's restraining grip. His eyes were wide and unfocussed, and when Mycroft pulled out of Greg's embrace and, crossing the distance to the bed, looked into them, he promptly took a step back – the ocean of fear and terror in the darkened depts threatened to swallow him whole.

"Stanley," the older Holmes said firmly, his eyes locking on Melford's and seemingly sending him a silent message. "I think you should help Doctor Watson get some more sleep."

Damian, having received Mycroft's message, rose up and took a step away from the bed, his eyes trained on Sherlock's still form. "Is it true, Mister Holmes? Are you sure? Because if it doesn't, then I don't think…"

"It's true, Mister Melford," Mycroft confirmed. "We have a long way to go, apparently, but I have no doubt we will succeed."

"From your mouth to God's ears," Barlow grumbled, administering the injection and also getting to his feet. "Alright, first things first: we all need rest, and that's an order. Although I would appreciate if somebody could lend me a hand with moving Sherlock into more comfortable position."

Greg and Damian complied with his request, and soon the younger Holmes was resting on the second bed (which, of course, was moved to the far side of the room – just in case). Barlow even bothered to give him a dose of sedative too, - again, just in case.

"Okay, everybody out and straight to their rooms," Stanley ordered. "24 hours of rest, and after that we'll sort everything out. Understood?"

Truth to be told, Barlow didn't expect for his words to have any effect, and was surprised to receive affirmative nods from all members of their company.

"Remarkable, Doctor Barlow," Mycroft praised, starting to shepherd Greg towards the door. "Hold that thought. And see you in 24 hours, gentlemen."

A moment later Melford followed his example, curling his arm around Stanley's waist and towing him along. "Did I tell you how proud of you I am?" he murmured into his solumate's ear. "If not, then I'm telling you that now. Sleep?"

"Not objecting, no. And a lot of other things afterwards."

"Deal."

Mycroft and Greg meanwhile closed the door to the control room and looked at each other.

"Do you have a bed in here?" the DI tried to stifle a yawn. "I'm dead on my feet."

"The hidden door behind the panel in the far left corner of the room. Two beds, actually, in case you are uncomfortable," the older Holmes smiled. "I'll join you shortly – just need to finish something first."

"Okay," Lestrade yawned in earnest and sauntered to the hidden entrance. "We did well, don't you think?"

"Exceptionally," Mycroft confirmed, walking to the command centre. Just a couple of messages and this whole business was over.

Besides, he still had an element of surprise on his side – not for long, of course, but still… It was always good to have an upper hand.

* * *

_Sherlock closed his eyes as the dark surface got closer. He was ready to die… now, when John was safe, nothing else mattered. John would cope, he had no doubts about it. And Mycroft would deal with Norton. It would not be easy, but he had no choice. He just hoped that John would be able to understand._

_Lost in his thoughts, he was totally unprepared to the sensation of two strong arms sliding around his body. His eyes opened wide in time to see Norton managing to flip them about so the banker's body would be the first to hit the water._

' _Sorry, young Sherlock, but you aren't going to win,' the banker voice was calm and composed. 'Not this time, not ever. How's that for a happy ending?'_

_Sherlock didn't have time to reply: right at that moment they plunged into the water and he heard a sickening crunch of Norton's body being bashed against the sharp shards of rocks. He felt one of said shards scraping against the side of his face, and then nothing._

_''I'm coming back, John. Wait for me…'_

* * *

It took him a week. A whole week, in which, unbeknownst to him, most of their company were enjoying spending with each other and trying to care for John. The last part was especially problematic, because John was stubbornly shutting everyone out, refusing to talk and, by the look of it, having regular nervous breakdowns by Sherlock's bedside.

Mycroft was moderately busy sorting things out and getting the situation with Norton's empire under control. To their immense surprise, the banker managed to have his last laugh by leaving said empire to his PA. That resulted in quite a row between Damian and Mycroft, which Greg and Stanley took immense pleasure in watching and then finding a peaceful resolution to. Not without Stanley freaking out a bit, though; it's not every day that you find yourself being talked into accepting a position of vice-president in world-wide corporation. Especially when one of the people doing the talking is a bloody British government himself. Poor disoriented Doctor Barlow simply had no chance; but, considering that Damian thoroughly and enthusiastically made it up to him afterwards by taking him to see the most amazing dreamscapes ever imaginable, Stanley had no trouble accepting such an apology.

Greg deigned to have a few shouting matches with Mycroft too: both of them happened to be stubborn to the extreme, and the older Holmes was, in the end, forced to grudgingly accept the fact of Lestrade turning down an offer of a prestigious position in Mycroft's organization - again. Not that the older Holmes was planning to give up so easily: he was a seasoned politician, after all, adept at playing things out to his benefit, and getting everything he wanted by taking it slow. Besides, who said that it couldn't be an enjoyable process for both of them?

So, all in all, the four of them were almost happy and content. Almost.

Happiness is a fragile thing, especially when there is someone being broken and devastated nearby.

They took turns keeping John company, but being around him felt like being near a black hole: he sucked away their energy without even realising it, and some of them were starting to freak out.

Stanley was the first to lose it: he stormed into the intensive care room and got up close and personal with John, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and jerking him up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled, shaking the blond doctor up for emphasis. "And don't you dare to shut me out this time, because that sure as hell isn't happening!"

John just gave him a blank look and then closed his eyes.

Infuriated, Stan let him go and raised his hand to slap him, but then stopped and turned away, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I… I just can't… I'm sorry, John."

"Me too," the voice was hollow and raspy. "I can't feel him, Stan. At all. Our bond… it's gone..," he broke off, a sob finally wrenching his way out of his throat.

Barlow whirled around, eyes terrified. "What?"

"He is… here," John was choking on his words. "He is, not… Norton. That's… all… I feel. Nothing… nothing more. There isn't… anything left. Oh God, Stan… there's nothing… I… What I'm going to do?"

Stan could only watch in horror as John crumpled to the floor, defeated. Then Barlow was crashing down onto his knees, embracing him, and John cried in his arms until his eyes run dry.

"We'll figure something out," he promised, stroking John's tense muscles. "It's not the end, John. We'll get him back."

"There's nothing to figure, Stan," John's voice was once again quiet and hollow. "And he will be back, all right. Just not for me."

"Bullshit," Barlow grumbled emphatically. "You both are too damn stubborn to give up. What if he is playing possum only because he's busy finding the solution? As far as I understand, he has a habit of leaving you out of the loop, after all."

John stiffened in his arms, indignation thrumming through his whole body. "Is it your attempt to take my mind of the matter, Stan? Because it really sucks, I've got to tell you."

"It's working, nevertheless," the sandy-haired doctor objected. "Damian had been teaching me some tricks, you know. Not that I was an amateur myself, mind you."

 _'Not an amateur, no,'_ the voice in both their heads was predictably sarcastic. _'But still having much to learn. For example, not being so bloody noisy and distracting when one tries to work.'_

John and Stanley both froze then turned simultaneously to look at the bed. _'WHAT?'_

 _'Ow,'_ Sherlock dropped his head back onto the pillow. _'Some respect for the wounded, please.'_

"Oh, you little...," John was wrenching himself out of Stan's embrace and getting to his feet. "Stan, get out. And lock the door. I'm about to have a biggest f***ing conversation in my whole f***ing life. Shut the hell up, Sherlock. Just. Shut. Up."

"Manners," the dark-haired man grumbled under his breath. "Stanley, you'd better go, I really owe him an explanation…"

"Damn right," John was fuming and doing his best not to bash Sherlock's head in right in front of a witness.

"…And tell my brother I need to discuss some matters with him afterwards," Sherlock finished calmly.

The tension in the room was so thick that Barlow shivered from head to toe; but he seriously doubted it had anything to do with the implied verbal sparring. On the contrary… and yes, getting out right now seemed like a good idea.

He beat the fastest retreat in his life… and lo and behold, those three standing in semi-circle near the door and looking properly flustered was a sight he would never regret seeing…

* * *

John pointedly took his time, rolling his shoulders and stretching his muscles, all the while never breaking an eye contact with his impossible soulmate. Sherlock watched him with an amused half-smile playing on his lips, comfortable and smug on his bed.

Then John was moving, and Sherlock scooted up, getting into a half-sitting position. He was about to get it, big time. But who said that two couldn't play this game to the mutual pleasure?

A moment later he was in John's arms, and everything else stopped mattering.

"Never again, you hear me?" John's voice was muffled by Sherlock's pyjama top. "And I don't care if you the smartest one. We're in this together, you get me? One more instance of you being all heroic and shutting me out…"

Sherlock's hand wormed his way under John's chin and tilted his head up, coaxing him to look into his soulmate's eyes.

"As if," Sherlock whispered, and a moment later the world around them exploded in a supernova, their bond solidifying and fusing their souls permanently.

They spent some time basking in warm afterglow of their imprinting, although Sherlock could feel John desperately trying to stifle a chuckle.

"What?" he asked lazily in the end, taking pity on his annoyingly restless soulmate – John's mental scrambling was starting to give him a headache.

"Sherlock Holmes, the world's only psychic detective," John intoned. "Better upgrade your business card before we return to London."

Sherlock groaned, thumping his head against the pillow. "You just had to rub it into my face, hadn't you?"

"Don't worry, I'm going to do my best to create a white noise so you would not be able to listen to anyone else's thoughts," his soulmate promised, grinning.

Sherlock looked absolutely terrified by this idea, and John burst out laughing.

"Hold that thought, Sherlock," he hiccupped. "Hold that thought. Did you really think I was going to let that "playing possum" thing slide?"

Sherlock groaned and tried to hide his entire head under the pillow, but John mercilessly tugged the soft barrier away.

"No chance, mate," he said sweetly. "Payback is a bitch, you knew that."

Despite their thrust and parry, both were smiling, cocooned in their little corner of the universe.

"What are we going to do now, Sherlock? Seriously," John asked when his playful mood settled down.

"Live, John," Sherlock said simply. "Live and deal with everything together. Properly using our benefits, of course."

"Sounds like a plan," John smiled, lowering his head back on Sherlock's chest. "As long as I get to punch you for being an idiot on occasions."

"Sounds like a deal," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and winding his arms around his contented soulmate…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks. Thanks for everyone who had been reading, commenting and following this story during all those years. You are precious :)  
> 


End file.
